Beyond the Last Illusion
by ruth baulding
Summary: During that famous "extended mission to Mandalore," an exiled Duchess and her Jedi protectors flee a ruthless bounty hunter and have a close encounter with one of the galaxy's weirdest cults.
1. Chapter 1

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 1**

An excerpt from the Life and Teachings of Chakora Seva - Jedi Temple archive text.

_One day the master proposed the following riddle to his students._

"_There once were three men, who having fled their pursuing enemies to the very edge of an unknown wilderness, perceived that their foes would soon find and destroy them if they did not act quickly. They decided to part ways, each choosing his own path of escape, in the hope that at least one of them would survive. The first man followed a path straight back toward his enemies, reasoning that this was the course of action they would least expect. The second saw tall trees standing all round and climbed into the greatest of these, because he could from thence see his opponents' approach, and had a fine vantage point from which to throw projectiles or launch an ambush. The third man crept further into the wilderness, as quietly as he could, until he found a dark, deep cave well fortified and easy to defend, for it had but one entrance surrounded by large stones. Now, I ask you, which of these three men chose most wisely?"_

_The students, having heard this puzzle, were eager to test their answers. One called out, "The first man, master: for he chose to hide himself in the element of surprise, which is the subtlest of disguises."_

_Master Seva shook his head sadly. "No," he corrected the pupil. "Not even the advantage granted by surprise is sufficient to overcome the folly of overconfidence. This man was indeed foolish in his choice."_

_The students then consulted with each other, and at length another ventured to speak. "Master," he said. "Surely the wisest was the second man, he who climbed into the tall tree. For he used what was at hand and sought no further, which is the mark of true cunning."_

_Again the master shook his head. "Alas," he remarked. "That which is given has both a smiling and a scowling aspect. Every advantage is itself a weakness. For the tree which gave him such far reaching vision and the power to drop missiles on his enemies' heads could also be cut down or set to burn. This man also chose a path of folly."_

_Confident now that they had the right answer, the students cried out with one voice, "The third man was the wisest, then."_

_Master Seva laughed. "What?" he exclaimed. "Not at all. That man was the greatest fool of all – for the cave in which he sheltered was a gundark's lair."_

Lady Satine Kryze frowned over the text a moment longer and then tried to move the datareader's display to the next page; but she could find no control mechanism, either on the device itself or on the illuminated page of the screen. She could not even discern how to turn the thing off. Laying the small gadget aside where she had found it, she sighed. Likely enough it could only be manipulated by a Force-user….and that was surely something she was not, whatever else she might or might not be.

She turned instead to the small viewport set into the ship's hull – a mere slit in the thick bulkheads of the passenger transport, a tiny crack in the timeless, placeless interior of the freighter, a spy-hole which peered out upon the equally timeless, placeless sworls of a hyperspace tunnel. How long now until they reverted again? Hours? Days? Years? How long had it been since they had fled Mandalore, in fear of discovery – in uncertain, unresolved hope that they would not be followed this time? How long had it been since she had slept peacefully – or since she had slept at all? A pang of envy bade her tear her melancholy gaze away from the narrow viewport to regard her traveling companion, or bodyguard. He was fast asleep.

Not that this disturbed her. She knew now from months of experience that he could keep an effective watch even while unconscious. Like the legendary sleeping draigon, which was rumored always to slumber with one eye open, the Jedi could sense what was happening in the waking world even while they trod the path of their dreams. Was he dreaming about the text left open on the datareader, which had dropped unnoticed to the deck beside the ship's hard, economy class berth? Or some pleasanter place, some escape from the harsh conditions of their prolonged exile? Or of the two mercenaries he had ruthlessly, elegantly cut down with his saber outside the ravaged city of Tevlonia? Because the Jedi, despite their self-claimed title of "peace-keepers," could also be killers. She had seen it, seen the cool detachment from human sentiment, seen the impossibly deadly skill, heard the feeble excuse that the action had been necessary to save her life.

She hated him for killing the two villains. She was opposed to all violence, on principle. And he had acted in outright defiance of her principles, even going so far as to mock her. What had he said? _"Our mandate is to preserve your life, my lady – not your sensibilities."_ Arrogant, intolerable Jedi. She hated him so much, so very much, that her hand crept of its own accord to trace a line from his temple, over high cheekbones, all the way along the familiar jawline. He did not even stir.

The door slid open behind her and absurdly, impulsively, she spun round as though caught in some guilty act. "Master Jinn," she greeted the newcomer – an immensely tall man in his mid-fifties, possessed of a commanding yet gentle demeanor. He ducked beneath the low doorframe and entered the cabin, sweeping his sharp blue-grey eyes over the entire space. His hand rested casually on something hard jutting beneath his plain, frayed duster. She knew it to be the hilt of a lightsaber.

"I have searched the entire ship – including the docking bays – but I have found no sign of our friends. It is possible they did not reach the last refueling station in time to board. If that is so, we are fortunate indeed."

"What do you mean, _if that is so_?" Satine asked. "Wouldn't you sense if they were here?"

The fine lines around Qui Gon Jinn's mouth deepened slightly, hinting at humorous empathy. He understood how tense she was, how badly she craved an absolute confirmation that they were safe. But of course he would not lie, even to afford her a momentary comfort. "Not necessarily," he admitted. "There are too many sentients on this ship – too much going on. If they aren't actively seeking us…then it is possible I might not perceive them in the crowd."

Satine was determined to find the bright golden lining in this statement. "From which it follows," she pointed out, "That they are not actively seeking us. So we have a respite."

The Jedi master fixed her with a dry look, one which edged on mockery, also – though one mellowed with age, not the whiplash acerbity of his younger associate. "A fine observation, your ladyship." He nodded in the direction of his apprentice, half-curled on the bunk beside them. "I see one of you has followed my advice. I suggest you do likewise. You would do far better to sleep yourself than to watch another do so. I promise you will find it far more refreshing."

And that put her in her place. _A noblewoman you may be,_ his keen eyes seemed to say, _but there are some things in this galaxy which you will never, never have a right to possess._ Accepting the unspoken, subtle rebuke, she made a graceful half-bow and settled herself upon the cramped cabin's other bunk. Master Jinn deftly tugged the single hard pillow out from beneath his sleeping Padawan's head, dropped it onto the deck space between the two built-in cots, and stretched out his own long, lean frame upon the floor, one hand still resting on the pommel of his saber. Within moments, his breathing was slow and steady as the ocean lapping against smooth stone.

Marveling at their power to rest on command, to cease thought and emotion in their tracks, Satine lay and stared at the ceiling of the sleeping niche, a scant meter above her face. A holonet monitor had been set into it, so that a resting passenger could pass the weary time of transit watching idle gossip and insipid entertainment. She did not turn the machine on; she had no appetite for such base distractions – and besides, it might wake the two Jedi. Folding her hands over her chest, feeling a headache coming on and the strain on her overtaxed but acutely awake nerves, she sighed again, preparing for what promised to be a long and lonely vigil in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 2**

Sleep, and dreams, often come even when they are least expected.

_She was walking in the Halls of the Ancestors – the mausoleum in the city's lowest levels, the place where the great souls of past times were carved in stone, set to guard their own ashes in the catacombs' memorial vaults. In the dream, she walked behind Almeck, her father's staunch friend and advisor. Down, down, they proceeded, descending passage after winding passage. As they walked, the air grew colder and colder, until frost bit at her lings and numbed her limbs._

"_Here is the place, my lady," Almeck said – only her guide was no longer Almeck at all, but rather a tall person she did not recognize, veiled in dark robes. He wrapped her in a dark cloak also, and the cold abated. Then snow began to drift down, inexplicably…for the vaults were contained underground, beneath the city's protective dome. Were they not? Icy flakes settled on her lashes and piled about her feet. When she looked at the passageway ahead it had disappeared to be replaced by a snowy plain. The glow lamps which had adorned the corridor's hard carven walls were now distant stars and the luminous face of Concordia, her homeworld's moon._

"_No!" she cried out in horror – for the snow was drenched in blood. Armored warriors – men bearing the clan insignia of her own people – swarmed over the crimson snow, faceless and terrible behind their war masks, their gleaming helmets. They bore down on another figure: a Jedi in clothing white like the snow. His saber flashed and spun, but the warriors surrounded him. "N,o! No!" she shouted, struggling to move. Her body was now encased in ice, in cold despair, and she could neither breathe nor lift her limbs._

_But the scene changed again. The stark battlefield was now nothing but a carving on the wall, something she had seen many times in her youth. Her hand traced the outline of the story in the cold wall. The warriors did not move, and the Jedi stood still, weapon raised in a last doomed stand against certain destruction. She raised her hands to the wall and scrabbled her fingers against the awful image. It crumbled to dust beneath her clawing grasp, and she tore at it – more and more- until it all came away. Beneath lay the natural stone – crystal, shining within the veins of dark rock. In the glittering factes of the crystal she saw her home, her city, rebuilt into pinnacles of light, gleaming thin planes of crystal glass. And in the center of the city, in the center of the palace, in the center of the throne room, she saw herself. Herself and another, strange and yet familiar…_

Satine Kryze woke, her heart filled with a terrible longing, and her mind reeling with sudden, incontrovertible panic.

Pulse drumming in her ears, breathing coming short and fast, Satine struggled to shake off the interrupted dream, to understand what was so wrong, so terrifying. For a moment only the dreadful certainty of danger would make itself felt to her dulled senses. Fighting down the mindless panic, forcing her shuddering lungs to hold each breath deeply, she listened.

There was nothing. Nothing – and that was wrong. There should be the low thrum and gentle hiss of air through the ventilation system. The absence of sound was eerie, as was the absence of light. It was pitch dark. The tiny emergency lights which rimmed the edges of the floor, the flickering muted light of the various control panels set into the bulkheads around the small cabin – both had been extinguished, plunging them into utter blackness and stillness. Her heart fought to escape the cage of her ribs, and yet her arms and legs refused to move. The inky darkness seemed palpable, a thing holding her down with an iron hand.

Without warning, the black void was shattered and filled with fragmented light and sound. Faster than her mind could make sense of them, violent images flashed before her astonished eyes. A sharp, spitting hiss and throttling hum erupted into the quiet. A beam of blue light shot into existence from nowhere and swept across her vision, weaving a deadly arc of light in the close space. A shower of sparks. Something metallic fell with a shriek onto the deck below. In the glimpse of eerie light she saw the bits of droid still red-hot along their edges, their wires grotesquely mangled and melted. She saw the blue-cast profile of the young Jedi, every muscle tensed into inhuman, icy awareness. She saw the gaping hole yawning in the ceiling, where an acoustic thermo-panel had been neatly cut away to make an entrance point for the floating assassin probe.

"Are you all right?" a soft, urgent voice demanded of her. Was she all right? What? Sitting up, she nodded in shocked confusion. An Assasin probe. Sent to kill her. They had been found, again. The realizations hit her one by one, like a series of blows. An arm found its way under her elbow and around her back, pushed her upright. The lightsaber's weird glow was suddenly extinguished.

"Go to the upper deck lounge. Disappear in the crowd," Qui Gon Jinn's voice ordered, near at hand. "I'll find the operator."

"Yes, master." The reply was instantaneous, full of unspoken meaning. They never bothered to consult her, Satine reflected. In such moments the two Jedi were like one person, only speaking aloud out of habit, as some elderly persons did. They could act as a single fluid entity, calculating and adjusting as the situation demanded. They were even better than a Mandalorian elite squad.

She was now being half dragged out the door, into the corridor beyond. It too was shrouded in absolute dark. "They've cut the main power to this deck," Obi Wan said, thinking aloud for her benefit.. "The lift won't work. We'll have to climb."

Satine shook herself out of the stupor, felt new strength flood into her trembling limbs. She pushed away his supporting hand. "I'm perfectly fine," she snorted. "Climb where?" In answer he seized her hand and sprinted headlong down the passageway. She ran flat out to keep pace with him in the pitch dark. He came to sudden halt, and she slammed into his side, less than gracefully.

"Careful," he breathed, so close she could feel his warm breath. That hint of mocking humor rose to the surface in his voice. How could he think this was funny? The saber blazed into life again, making her skin prickle with its searing heat. A double reinforced lift door stood before them. Into the control panel the saber went, with a horrible smell of melted plastoid and hot metal. The doors sprang open, revealing a black shaft devoid of any lift.

The saber disappeared once more. "On my back. Quick," the young Jedi ordered, as sharp and confident as Qui Gon Jinn had been a minute earlier. Without pausing to object to his commanding tone, Satine obeyed, grabbing him about the neck and twisting her legs around his slim waist. She squeezed her eyes shut despite the dark, dreading the horrible moment to come.

She still cried out as they sailed into darkness and plummeted straight down. There was a long second's swooping fall and then their speed seemed to lessen, to flow with some other hidden power, and they landed almost gently on a hard protrusion. She heard the soft thrum of a liquid cable launching from its projector, the clink of its grappling end as found leverage high overhead. "Hang on," the Jedi advised, needlessly. They swung out and up again, and then they were half-rising with the cable's retraction, half climbing one hand at a time, straight up. She could hear Obi Wan's breathing – deep and controlled, full of effort but not quite strain, despite the extra weight. They were ascending the interior wall of the shaft toward a narrow beam of light which must mark the lift port for the upper decks.

"Well," Satine remarked. "We're getting better at this climbing business. You haven't dropped me this time."

She could feel his tiny snort of dark amusement, the subtle shrug of shoulder muscles beneath her hands. "Don't tempt me."

And in that moment, silently smiling in return, dangling perilously above the dark pit on a narrow thread, headed from danger into danger, she decided that perhaps she did not hate him so very, very much after all.

* * *

><p>Qui Gin Jinn shoved aside yet another panel of insulation netting and sighed in frustration. He should have sent Obi Wan up into the maze of connecting vent shafts – besides being smaller across the shoulders and more compact in general, he was a good thirty years younger.<p>

"I'm too old for this," the Jedi master complained ruefully, trying hard to ignore the cramping pain in his back and legs. He had navigated the interlocking web of passages thus far by following the trail of small holes the hunter-killer droid had carved in the filters stretched across the ducts. This last branch, however, narrowed to an impossible diameter. He would have to retreat to the previous crossways – an easy forty meters backward in tight quarters.

Then he heard it – the high reverberating hum of another seeker droid, fast approaching his position from behind. What a stroke of good fortune that the vent shaft magnified its repulsors' sound fifty-fold, or he might not have sensed its imminent arrival. There was no room to maneuver in the tunnel; he may as well have been a cork jammed into a bottle of vintage Serrenoan wine. Grimacing, Qui Gon shimmied his saber hilt into one hand and then flicked the activation switch, holding the weapon against the flat surface of the tunnel floor. A quick twist of the wrist and he had sheared away a sizeable hole directly beneath his body. He tumbled through without hesitation, sucking in a hissing breath as the red hot fused edges brushed against his trouser leg.

Dropping through the ceiling of the space below and landing in a crouch on a rubber-matted deck, he brandished the saber high over his head. Screams of terror and surprise filled the air. A jet of scalding water sprayed wildly across the room, and there was a clatter of large pots being dropped against a hard surface. Qui Gon registered that this must be the ship's galley – but there was no time for an apology.

The hunter-seeker descended through the hole after him, targeting light already flashing. A deadly bolt of blaster fire pinged off the saber's blade, ricocheting into a piece of machinery on the far wall. Another shot followed, and another. Qui Gon somersaulted up onto the broad food-prep counter, scattering bits of salad and chopped nuts underfoot, and swung for the droid assassin. It zoomed away, toward the roof again, and its next shot glanced off the Jedi's blade to explode in a container of sarasata pickles. Vinegar and frizzled bits of vegetable spattered in every direction. The automatic fire extinguisher system went off, pouring a self-expanding foam upon every unfortunate being in a five meter radius.

Half blind, and choking on the white billows of synthetic flame retardant, Qui Gon made another cut with his saber, and found his mark. The droid clattered to the deck in two pieces, while the Jedi ducked out of the galley into the serving area, where the patrons of the dining mezzanine were hurriedly evacuating. A befuddled protocol model serving droid tottered about in circles, waving its hands in distress. "Fire in the kitchens," it moaned. "Please evacuate the immediate area. Fire in the kitchens."

Leaving the hysterical droid to sort out the problem as best it could, Qui Gon slipped through the jostling crowd with as much speed as his great height and long stride could afford him. He headed for the nearest quiet spot – a niche intended as a recharge station for the countless cleaning bots that swept the floors and polished the chrome accents in the luxury cabins.

"Obi Wan," he barked into his comlink, cueing it to his apprentice's coded frequency. No response.

The Force was seething with confusion and annoyance. He could barely make out individual presences in the ocean of disgruntled emotion. Closing his eyes, he let his awareness drift a little further into deep currents, where relative distances meant nothing…he could sense his Padawan, a few decks above. He must have reached the entertainment lounge safely. And another presence – a cunning, focused mind, calmly intent on its prey. That would be the bounty hunter. He too was above this level, seeking for the refugees.

Qui Gon tried the comlink again. His apprentice's voice came through garbled by background noise. "Master. Did you find the bounty hunter?" Obi Wan asked without preface.

"I've disabled another remote," Qui Gon answered. "The operator is headed in your direction. Be alert. I'll see if I can find his transport in the hangar deck. Contact me if you change position."

"Yes, master." There was more background interference – it sounded like loud music, the swell and buzz of a crowd, before the link cut out.

Qui Gon waited until the greater part of the crowd had dwindled away, and then dashed into a lift tube, hitting the control panel's touch sensitive surface with an impatient hand. In a moment he was whisked away to the hangar decks. He had no idea how the assassin had managed to get on board; but if he had any say in the matter, the villain would not find it so easy to get off again.


	3. Chapter 3

Beyond the Last Illusion

**Chapter 3**

The omnipresent din in the entertainment lounge set Obi Wan Kenobi's teeth on edge. Gambling machines arrayed at one end of the low-roofed, curving upper balcony spat out a string of shrill, repetitive musical notes and pings, while the air was thick with animated chatter, curses, exclamations, and plenty of bacci smoke. Bodies of a hundred different species bumped and squeezed together as customers sought a chance to win a fortune against the odds at one of the automated play stations.

At least Satine was behaving. She had one hand firmly attached to his elbow and was pattering along beside him as docilely as a tame gorrskah. From the railing which surrounded the upper deck, he had a clear view of both entrances. Thus far, no suspicious characters had wandered into view. He felt hampered by the sheer numbers of people here; though he ought ideally to be able to narrow his focus even in the midst of an angry mob, the Force seemed unusually choppy, contorted – full of unpredictable surges and ebbs. He fell back on mundane sight to help him spot their enemy. A bounty hunter would have a certain way of walking, of moving. There were a hundred subtle cues of posture or bearing which might alert him.

"Hey! You gonna play or you just takin' up space?" a bulky Koorivan chuffed, swaggering up to the place where he stood surveying the lower deck and bar area.

Satine arched her eyebrows. "We're taking up a great deal less space than _you_ are," she retorted, eyeing the Koorivan's massive form with critical disdain.

"Listen, _keevla._ I work here. You playt or you scram. This deck's for gambling, not loitering. You want me to toss you and your boy-toy here out on your high and mighties, or you gonna listen to me?"

Satine's indignation was a flash of hot lightning. It blotted out the subtler currents in the Force, blurred all together into one bright smear of outrage. Obi Wan gripped her hand and pulled her away. "We'll find another place to stand," he promised the Koorivan, swallowing his own irritation. He needed to stay alert, not to be distracted by this nonsensical exchange.

The irritable Koorivan glowered after them as they descended the steps to the lower level.

"That boorish slob," Satine murmured. "Such a lack of breeding. I wonder –"

"Don't," Obi Wan snapped. For some reason, every twist in the young Duchess' mood scraped his nerves raw, as though he were a tuning fork honed to her whims. It made concentration difficult. "Just be quiet and…stand _here._" He deposited her at one end of the long, polished thermaglass bar and retreated two paces away, where he had a decent view of the near entrance.

"Can I buy you a drink?" A well-groomed Core-worlder in fashionable velveteen sidled up to Satine and favored her with a holo-net worthy smile.

_It aids in disguising her identity,_ Obi Wan reminded himself, forcing his hand away from the hilt of his saber. _The man is unwittingly helping us. _He drifted a little further form the bar, noting with irrational annoyance that the interloper laughed too loudly and used a honeyed oil to slick back his dark hair. The lounge was full – people sat at tables, stood in milling groups idly conversing, ambled back and forth between the buffet tables and the three entertainment stages on which various performers displayed their talents. Grating Zousski music throbbed through the audio enhancers, making the floor quiver underfoot with each beat.

Then he felt it, sliding over his skin like a trickle of ice, tapping gently, inexorably, at his attention like a small worrying insect fluttering against glass. The music seemed to fade, the chatter and hum of the crowd go mute. A dark presence stood out alone – at the far end of the room. Hunting, seeking. Not yet aware that he was so close to his quarry.

Three swift strides brought him back to the bar, where the charming Core-worlder was leaning in close to Satine's face, regaling her with some apparently humorous anecdote.

"Your pardon," the Jedi said, accidentally and very accurately knocking the man's glass over onto his lap. Dark amber liquid spattered onto the front of his velveteen vestkin and white shirtfront.

Affronted, the fellow rose to his feet and glared, but Obi Wan steered Satine away with on earm, smashing her would-be wooer's mind flat with a bit of Force influence. "Sit down," he commanded, and the man collapsed back onto his barstool in a daze, limp beneath the onslaught.

"That was inexcusable," Satine whispered fiercely in his ear.

"He's here," Obi Wan whispered back, pushing her along a little more firmly. "Head for that stage. Look unconcerned."

They reached the edge of the tables surrounding the stage without attracting special notice. The bounty hunter had now found his way to the bar…but he was still idly searching, surveying the company, not yet focused on them.

"Well, this is nice," Satine scoffed, jerking his awareness back to the immediate vicinity. She nodded her head sharply at the stage, where a troupe of Twi'Lek dancing girls made their sinuous way across a lurid backdrop. Many of the spectators rose from their seats and let loose catcalls.

"Look like you're watching," Obi Wan ordered, frowning. Where had the bounty hunter gone? Ah, yes….closer, but not too close. Between them and the nearest exit, unfortunately. He still hadn't noticed them. Reaching deeper, he tried to shield himself and Satine within the Force, to blur their outline, to give them a sort of camoflauge.

The Twi'Lek entertainers had descended from the stage and were idly wandering among the tables, responding to the whistles and clapping of their predominantly male patrons. Obi Wan watched the bounty hunter half turn away, and then turn back toward the table where he sat, unmoving, his hand resting on his saber pommel….ready…hardly breathing…

A blue skinned arm wound its way round his neck sensuously, and a soft hand caressed his cheek. Startled, he twisted free of the unwanted embrace and gave the dancer a withering look. "No thank you," he growled, slewing round again immediately to find his lurking enemy. The man had moved, disappeared.

The girl made a rude comment in Twi'Lek and flounced away to the next table. Satine broke into cascading laughter, ripples of amusement glittering in the Force like glowmoths. Then alarm cut across her joy – a sharp jolt of fear.

The bounty hunter slid into the seat opposite Obi Wan. "Those dancing girls aren't accustomed to being rejected," the man said in a husky, deep voice with a bacci smoker's rough undertones. He leaned back casually, his severely cut nerfhide jacket falling open to reveal crossed holster straps. His teeth were stained yellow, and his smile was as wide as a canyon. "Something wrong with you, son?"

"I have better things to attend to," the Jedi replied gallantly. His fingers lightly grasped the curve of his saber's hilt, his thumb straying near the activator. The Force poured through him, cold and torrential – battle energy gathering in every cell of his being.

The bounty hunter's hands were interlaced behind his head. He gazed at Satine, almost hungrily. "So I see," he remarked. His eyes flicked sideways to the curved form of the dancing girl bending over a table a few paces distant. "Still…Mandalorian women ain't known for their warm and loving ways."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Satine hissed.

Obi Wan's heart thudded. Another hostile being was approaching them from behind, pace by stealthy pace, waiting for a signal. The bounty hunter had an accomplice – this conversation was a mere distraction.

"I mean," the man said, leaning forward, knotted hands resting on the table, eyes locked on Obi Wan's, "That you should just get up and walk away right now. That way, only one of us needs to end up dead." He flashed a yellow, leering grin at Satine, and leaned back again, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

"I don't think so," the Jedi breathed – and in the next second, violence erupted. The bounty hunter drew his blaster just as Obi Wan lifted the table with the Force and smashed its broad surface into his face, effectively blocking the first shot. The Jedi pivoted and flashed his saber blade into brilliant blue motion at the same time, driving the blade around in a tight arc, severing the weapon arm of the second man, the one crouching behind him. The wounded man screamed and fell to the carpet, as his companion kicked the table away with a curse, only to be thrown across the next table by a roundhouse kick square in his chest. His blaster went skidding across the floor.

Screams and panicked cries joined the general pandemonium within the entertainment lounge. Customers and employees began a mad scramble for cover. In the confusion, Obi Wan seized Satine and fled, pounding through the nearby exit and onto the wide upper concourse of the transport's luxury level.


	4. Chapter 4

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 4**

Qui Gon was in the hangar bay, contemplating his handiwork, when the comlink chimed.

"Obi Wan," he answered, immediately sensing that something was badly amiss. "What happened?"

"There was a situation in the lounge," his Padawan explained tersely. The young man sounded slightly strained. "There are two of them, master – though I think one might be out of commission."

Qui Gon closed his eyes. There had been a confrontation . "So much for blending in with the crowd," he sighed.

"I'm truly sorry, master."

But there wasn't time to argue now. And likely enough, there had been little choice. The outbreak of fighting would call down the ship's security forces on their heads – which was the last thing they needed. It was imperative that they get her ladyship off this transport, without delay. Qui Gon's mind raced. "Where are you now?" he said, calmly sorting through the possibilities.

"Ventilation shaft above the refuse incinerator," Obi Wan answered. "Level two, starboard side. We are being pursued, at a distance."

"Listen to me," Qui Gon instructed. "I've tampered with every vessel in the aft hangar bay. He won't be able to follow you if you get off the ship quickly. Now, when the captain makes an emergency reversion to get the wounded man to a medcenter, I want you to launch all the starboard nacelle escape pods. It will look like a standard malfunction. Take one down to the surface, and leave your comlink open. I'll find you as soon as I can."

"I understand, master."

Qui Gon smiled grimly. His apprentice was a cunning and reliable ally. He had great confidence in the young Jedi's abilities. "May the Force be with you," he added, and closed the link.

* * *

><p>Devrill Thwarp bent close over his injured colleague's feverish, agonized face. A shipboard med-droid was staunching the wound with a pressure patch, although the stump of Rhin's arm was burned to a carbon black, cauterized and sealed already. Blood seeped thickly around the edges, and Rhin thrashed feebly to and fro.<p>

"Listen, Rhin," Devrill muttered. "Listen. I'll get them. The Duchess and that kriffing Jedi. You don't worry about it. I'll find 'em and fry 'em both. And we'll split the earnings. Okay? Do you hear me?"

Rhins' eyes seemed to lighten a little at the prospect of sharing the money, but he groaned and cursed and sobbed as a pair of med assistants strapped him to a repulsor-palette gurney.

"We are not properly equipped to repair such an injury," the droid announced solemnly. "I will inform the captain that we must make an emergency reversion to transport this patient to the nearest medcenter." He pressed a loaded syringe into Rhin's good arm, as emotionless and efficient as only a droid could be.

Thwarp watched the team carry off his partner to the sickbay or wherever it was they stowed guys who happened to get sliced up by a lightsaber in the middle of a commuter trip. He cursed under his breath for a good minute. Rhin was a solid, reliable mate. They had worked many contracts together. Now the odds were uneven: two Jedi versus one bounty hunter. But there was nothing that would keep him from collecting the bounty on the pretty little Duchess' head. The Mandalorian insurgency had been very generous in its offer.

He returned to the cabin where Rhin and he had stowed their gear and packed everything up in one case, strapping it to his back. Rhin's small blaster he shoved into his belt. Three guns were better than one, and Rhin might want it back someday – after he learned to shoot left-handed. _Damn,_ he reflected bitterly. _That Jedi barve was fast. _

For a moment he stood frozen, doubting himself. Then a happier thought occurred to him. _You're fast, Jedi. So I'll kill you slowly. Just give me the chance and I swear I will. _He finished packing with a renewed sense of purpose, and strode down the corridor. The Jedi must still be hiding here somewhere. He might be fast, but the little lady didn't have the same powers. That would slow him down a bit. And there wasn't all that much empty space on a ship like this. They couldn't hide forever, not with security out looking for them too.

He grabbed the wall for support as the transport made a sudden swooping exit from hyperspace. SO they had found an inhabited system already? Well, that was a good thing for poor Rhin. They might be able to get to his arm in time for a prosthetic replacement to take without grueling neuro-therapy. A warning light on the panel beside him flashed. _Malfunction, starboard nacelle._ Thwarp glanced at the readout. Some escape pods had launched during reversion. That tended to happen with these big transport style vessels, especially when the transition was a little rough.

He resumed walking down the passage for a moment. Then he stopped. He was starting to get a feel for these Jedi types. They were fast. But more than that, they were cunning sons of vetches. He had formulated a kind of mental rule of thumb for himself: _when dealing with Jedi, assume that nothing occurs by chance._ Some escape pods had launched? A typical run of the mill starfaring accident? Not on your life.

"Kriff!" he shouted, running in the opposite direction now. Of course. They had stowed themselves on a pod and were headed down to whatever hellbound system this happened to be. Some nowhere place in the Outer Rim. Probably uncharted surface. Vape it! Unless he could get the coordinates of their launch, and a trajectory, he would have to comb the whole damn planet to find them again!

Skidding to a halt outside the starboard escape pod array, he jammed a finger against the last-launch indicator. But the controls were dead, blank and lifeless. Prying off the display panel, he squinted into the interior of the computer system. Severed wires, as neat as womprat pie. Never missed a beat, did these guys?

On the other hand, escape pods were slow, and ungainly, and not very maneuverable. If they hadn't entered the atmosphere yet, he might still be able to intercept them. Panting, he careened down corridor after corridor, pelting his way down to the aft hangar bay. There was his baby – his beautiful little ship, so cleverly disguised as a cargo tug. Leaping into the cockpit, he clipped the ignition ID cylinder in place and toggled the main drive activator. Nothing. The console lit up with a myriad of complaints. According to the computer, at least a hundred things were wrong with the ship.

Cursing again, and leaping down to the deck, he circled the small ship's hull. Something was wrong here…after all, he was a whiz at sabotage himself. He found the open access panel under the radiation dampers. The diagnostic circuits were coated in sticky glop. He ran a gloved finger through the white foam and rubbed it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. Fire retardant! Somebody had deftly squirted the flamm extinguisher into his diagnostic center.

"Chizzk! Jedi scum!" he howled. Nothing at all was wrong with the ship – but until that foam dried out, his computer would refuse to activate the fusion uptake. It was a standard safety override built into most models. He was stuck here.

Peering forlornly out the maglev barrier into black space beyond, he could make out the distant curve of a dull green planet. A few bright specks floated toward the passenger liner, flashing red alarm lights. The emergency services shuttle, come to pick up Rhin. Poor Rhin.

And then he had it. Of course. He could still get down to the surface, maybe even before the Jedi in the escape pod did. He took off running again, this time for the sick bay.

* * *

><p>"I assume you know how to pilot this thing?" Satine Kryze inquired archly, checking the safety restraints which held her against the hard cushion of the escape pod's seat.<p>

"Pilot?" Obi Wan answered. "These pods aren't designed to be piloted. They're just meant to fall…and crash." He offered her an impertinent grin.

She looked away, feeling a bit nauseated by their tumbling progress into the planet's gravity well and from thence into its atmosphere. The grav generator in the escape pod wasn't strong enough to counteract the sensation of flipping endlessly through space. Under her, the pod's thrusters kicked in and set the hull to shuddering. "Lovely. That is, if we don't burn up during re-entry."

"We won't," he assured her, checking something on the small readout screen to his right. "The shielding is fine. I just hope we hit land and not the ocean. There wasn't time to do an accurate nav projection. I had to estimate."

The sensation of vertigo suddenly increased. "Oh," Satine replied weakly, closing her eyes and fighting down the urge to vomit.

She felt the young Jedi reach out and take her hands between his own. At once there was a rush of golden light, a clear cool breeze of calm and confidence. For a moment she was glad to float, oblivious to the wild descent through foreign skies. And then she pulled away. "That's not necessary," she informed him, briskly.

To her surprise, he looked wounded.

"I'm sorry," she added, in haste.. "I'm fine. Truly. How long until we…ah…crash?"

"Four minutes," was his nonchalant reply.

_Four minutes,_ she thought. _Long enough for a life to change – or to end. _Some of the airstrikes on Mandalore, at the beginning of the civil war, had lasted half that long, and had devastated whole cities. She had been transformed from hereditary ruler to hunted outcast in less than a minute, when the contract condemning her to death had been signed by the leaders of the insurgency. When the Jedi had arrived, against all hope and expectation, to rescue her, her life had changed even faster. Irrevocably. Pushing the thought aside, she considered her companion instead. Under scrutiny, he did not appear so very calm as he would have her believe. There was a certain tell-tale edginess to his posture that belied a simmering, carefully concealed tension. "What's wrong?" she demanded, alarmed. "What aren't you telling me?"

He glanced up, caught off guard. Then he made a wry face. "Oh," he muttered. "You've found me out." He paused, almost embarrassed. "I hate flying."


	5. Chapter 5

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 5**

From the last canto of The Epic of Akall Yani-uh-Tahweku, translated from the ancient Twi'Lek by Glosting Hassuma.

"…_And the heavens above draw lower still_

_Leaning in close, like lovers_

_Who one to another's touch does thrill,_

_And with dark clouded mantles cover_

_All who listen, who hearken:_

_Beware, the heart blindly leads._

_Sure of its wending path,_

_By the roadside it strews seeds_

_Of sorrow and of wrath,_

_Which its vision further darken._

_Trust not this mad guide_

_As did Tahweku Akall_

_Or upon thy heart's blade_

_Thou too shall bleeding fall_

_And breathe out thy life_

_Bound in chains of yearning_

_Betrayed to a bitter fate _

_Of thy own folly's earning._

_Be strong, my sons, and hate_

_Love, for it is nought but strife._

"It's better in Twi'Lek," Obi Wan apologized. "But I don't remember nearly as many verses."

Satine pulled her stained and fraying cloak tighter about her shoulders. The wind rising above the hills to the north was bitter cold, and heavy with moisture. It smelled of salt; their fortuitous landing had been close indeed to the ocean. This was either a good omen or a bad one, depending on your point of view. The Mandalorians had a saying: _A disaster narrowly avoided is a great triumph._ But Satine had never quite agreed. Far better to avoid one's disasters by a greater margin than a scant half-klick. The small fire crackled merrily, and sparks danced in the whirlwinds kicked up by the breeze. If only they had some food besides the tasteless emergency rations stowed in the escape pod's survival pack, the campsite might almost be cheerful.

"My turn," she volunteered. "This is a lullaby which the mothers on our moon, Concordia, have sung to their infants for generations beyond memory." She found her voice, quavering at first, but then growing stronger as she softly intoned the familiar notes and words, sweet-sad and then joyful-solemn, a tidal rise and fall of pure cadences in her native Mandoa dialect. The old music soothed her fears and made the foreign, strange surroundings seem less intimidating, less exotic.

"My mother used to sing it to me, also," she said when she had done. "Do you…?" But that was a foolish question. He wouldn't evene remember his mother, whomever she had been or was still. He had recited the old Twi'Lek poem so convincingly that she might have mistaken him for a member of the culture. But Jedi had no roots – none but those which grafted them into their millennia old Order. None they shared with ordinary beings. They had no lullabies to cherish.

"It's beautiful," he said, with genuine warmth. But then he stood, ending the conversation before it could begin. "There are predators out here."

She did not ask how he knew. "Shall we move further up the hills?"

Obi Wan frowned, considering. "No," he decided. "Not until I know what they are. However, we can at least not set a beacon light for them." He waved a hand over the fire, making a swift clenching fist at the last moment, and the sputtering flames choked and died, smothered by an invisible hand. Blanketed now in darkness, they wrapped themselves in cloaks and thin thermal sheets from the survival gear, and laid down to rest upon the hard stony ground. Satine knew that the Jedi would not sleep – and neither would she.

Overhead the stars burned and the three moons glinted dull silver and red on the far horizon. Batlike shapes crossed against the muted sky, darker silhouettes against the smoke blue backdrop. Insects chirped and thrummed in the trees cresting the hill, and creatures scuttled and prowled in the scrub nearby. An evening fog, carried inland from the too-near seaside, gradually settled over them, beading the thermal sheets with heavy dew drops and the scent of salt and sweet-tangy kelp. Satine's overwrought mind wandered freely, like the driftwood which must be floating on the ocean's moonlit surface.

"Is it true that Hutts embalm their dead?" she asked suddenly, into the darkness.

"Hm?" Obi Wan answered groggily. Perhaps he had been asleep after all. "Hutts? Yes, it's true. I've seen it."

"You've seen a Hutt mummy?"

"Well, I've seen an archive image. Qui Gon has seen one live – or rather, dead. He said the sarcophagus was immense."

Satine smiled. "I can well imagine. On Mandalore, we traditionally commemorate our dead with funerary images. But we do not preserve their bodies."

"I've seen images of the Halls of Honor, too," Obi Wan offered. "They once were very impressive."

She shivered at the use of the past tense. The Halls had been destroyed, like so much of her homeworld, in the civil wars which still raged over every continent. "So you studied us before you arrived?" she asked, feeling somehow resentful at her people being reduced to an item of scholarly interest at some briefing session.

He must have sensed her annoyance, for he hesitated before replying. "Any cause worth serving is worth understanding," he said, cautiously. "I particularly wished to inform myself well, lest historical associations bias my judgment."

Satine felt herself flush. How dare he throw the Mandalorian wars against the Jedi in her face? Did he suppose she was of the same ilk as the monsters who had shed so much blood at Galidraan and elsewhere? And for that matter, did he expect her to take his side in the controversy? The Jedi had also committed what amounted to a massacre. None of them were innocent.

"I would by no means wish you to be _biased_ in your judgment," she snarled, taken aback by her own vehemence.

There was an icy silence from the other side of the dead fire.

"Your pardon, " she said coolly, after a long while. "It has been a long day."

"Indeed," Obi Wan replied. And there was no more conversation after that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 6**

Qui Gon Jinn slipped out of the emergency shuttle's storage closet and stretched his back and arms, pushing a little on one side of his head to relieve his neck of a bothersome crick. In the next moment he was down the ramp and having a long look at his new surroundings – the interior of a medical center's transport bay. Droids and a wide variety of sentients – all clad in the dull blue unisuits of the hospital – hurried to and fro, toting equipment, carting patients off the swift transport shuttles, shouting urgent orders.

A med droid type B – the clerical and administrative assistant, Qui Gon guessed – tottered forward. "I am sorry, sir," it addressed the Jedi stowaway, "This is a restricted section. May I direct you to the proper level?"

"I wish to report a downed spacecraft," he answered briskly. "There may be survivors who require assistance."

The droid brandished a formidable looking datapad. "Coordinates of crash?" it intoned.

"Unknown," Qui Gon supplied. " I witnessed it from orbit. Do you have tracking equipment?"

A human in the standard blue uniform hurried up to them. "P17," he barked. "You need to triage the people in the next arriving shuttle. Get over there."

The droid tottered away again, leaving Qui Gon in the company of the brusque newcomer. "Look," this person growled. "You're in one piece, and you're not one of ours, so you don't belong here. Visitors' Entrance is on level four. You gotta go through security."

The Jedi master did not budge. "The shuttle which just arrived came from a passenger liner. Several escape pods from that same transport were launched during reversion. I have reason to believe one of them contained life forms. Are you able to scan and locate recent atmospheric entries?"

The burly medic glared at him. "For a thing that small? Sorry, brother, we aren't miracle workers here. This is the only major trauma med center on planet. Got it? And I have a whole floor of patients who need my help. So get."

Qui Gon gave the unhelpful man a curt nod and strode out the exit, into dull afternoon sunshine. He tried his comlink, but without an established tracking signal to route the transmission, it could not locate Obi Wan's device. No matter; there was always another way, as he so frequently told his Padawan. He thrust two fingers into the smallest pouch on his belt and fingered the dwindling supply of Republic credit chits held there. They had been on the run so long, even the extensive monetary resources afforded them as Jedi on an official mission were running short – and he had little chance of renewing them this far out in the Rim worlds.

He let his racing mind slow to a halt and listened instead. The Force flowed here, strong and steady as always. It would show him a path. Presently he set off down the broad forecourt of the medcenter, toward the public entrance plaza. Here caff vendors and air-taxi pilots clustered round the open pedestrian platform, offering their services. A knot of peaceful protestors had erected a sort of kiosk at one end of the plaza. Holoposters glared in the shadow of the tall building, and a group of young people in scarlet caps called to passersby.

Qui Gon made straight for this group. _The discontent are often the keenest observers,_ an old Temple proverb stated. And it was true, in his experience. "Good afternoon," he greeted a dark-haired youth at the forefront. "I'm from off-planet. I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your cause."

The young man's face flushed with unbridled enthusiasm to make a new convert. "Take a brochure," he urged, thrusting a flimsi into the Jedi's hands. "We're the wave of the future. Take back what's ours! Were you aware that ninety percent of the arable land here on Pelion is devoted to monastics who don't even make use of it anymore? And as a result, our economy is pathetically dependent on imports. Look." He snatched the flimsi back out of Qui Gon's hand and jabbed a finger at the data table on the second page. "See this? If we were able to use the monastic holdings for crop production and mineral harvest, we could eliminate the need for imports on staple goods. And we could actually pay down our debt. We're collecting signatures for a petition to send to the planetary governor. If we have a majority, he'll be forced to have the monastic exemption tried in the Senate courts! Want to add your name?"

"As I said, I'm not a citizen," Qui Gon reminded him. "But what monastic order are you speaking of? Pelion isn't a place with which I'm well acquainted."

"Oh," the eager youth continued. "Right. Ever hear of the B'Omarri?"

Qui Gon felt a flutter of apprehension deep in his mind. "Yes," he replied. "I thought they were all but extinct in this sector?"

"Exactly!" the hot-headed revolutionary fumed. "They are. There's just one group still left on the western continent. The rest of them are dead…or you know, just hanging around. They don't need farming or land anymore. They're all _enlightened._ So why should everyone else go without?"

"Why indeed?" the Jedi murmured.

"You're sure you won't sign?" the youth asked hopefully.

"I wish you success in your endeavor," Qui Gon told him. "Can you direct me to a public comm. hub?"

The protestor pointed vaguely across the plaza. "Over there," he said. "Two credits for a standard holonet link. Rip off – it's all the B'Omarr monks' fault, believe me."

* * *

><p>Devrill Thwarp patted Rhin on the shoulder – the good shoulder. "Don't worry, mate," he said. "You'll be good as new. Promise."<p>

Rhin's speech was slurred beyond comprehension by all the chems the medics had pumped into him. His shoulder was now attached to an elaborate support system, a network of wires and tubes and oddly shaped robotic monitors. Devrill shuddered involuntarily. Horrible. To think that Rhin would now have a bit of droid stuck to him forever – like a cancerous growth protruding from his side. And all because some upstart Jedi brat decided to have a whack at the guy, when all he was doing was trying to make an honest living.

The door to the bay slid open and a tall Phindian in police uniform entered, his long arms practically dragging on the ground. "Thwarp?" he inquired, orange eyes resting on Rhin's mangled body with a suggestion of revulsion. "You witnessed the assault?"

"Yes," Thwarp replied. "It was directly before the ship reverted in this system."

"Technically, because the assault happened outside my jurisdiction, I don't have the authority to investigate," the Phindian officer mused. "And I doubt it would be worth my while anyhow."

Thwarp spoke this language all too fluently. "Times tough here, eh?"he asked, sizing up the long-armed policeman with a shrewd eye. "Guy like you deserves a bonus, in my opinion. Where I come from, people are happy to provide the local police with extra…uh…support."

The Phindian's reddish-gold eyes lit up. "Do you have any information about the assailant's present whereabouts?" he queried, rising to the bait.

"Well," Thwarp shrugged, jingling the credit chips in his pocket. "What if I told you the guy is right here on this planet? He fled the scene of the crime right after it happened. Took an escape pod down dirtside. Probably hiding out in the wilderness. Bet you the creep's wanted on other systems, too. Might be a reward."

The police officer grinned, his long Phindian mouth revealing a double row of dirty brownish teeth. "A pod?" he repeated eagerly. "My department has some tracking equipment. We can pinpoint the landing site. Would you be willing to cooperate in the investigation? I'll need you to make a positive identification of the suspect."

"No problem," Thwarp promised. "Rhin here is a good mate. I'd do anything to bring this chiszzk who hurt him to justice. I'll come with you on the search." He made a point of knocking the credit chips together again.

"Good," the peace officer grinned. "That's settled then."


	7. Chapter 7

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 7**

Dawn broke early, painting the sky brilliant shades of lavender and orange. Satine stirred fretfully, untwisting the thin but effective thermal sheet and levering herself upright one stiff, sore limb at a time. The ashes of the fire were damp with morning dew, and only a few lonely bird calls punctuated the hanging silence. She was alone in the small clearing.

Poking at the fire's cold remains with a branch, and tossing a self-light capsule onto the heap of raw tinder she had gather, she gazed through a gap in the sparse trees. There lay the broken escape pod, and the dark ploughed-out trail of earth behind it. Obi Wan had insisted that they remain within comm. distance of the pod, hoping that Qui Gon would be able to send a signal through the long distance transceiver. If he could not do so – if he could not contact them - they might be stranded here for some time.

The thought was unnerving.

She prowled away from the fire and the trampled earth which demarcated their makeshift camp. The Jedi must be nearby; he would have retreated a short distance to meditate, or to work through some esoteric physical exercise, or simply to make a reconnaissance of the area. She padded silently through the soft undergrowth, uphill a short way, listening for the sound of a lightsaber humming in the cold air or for the rustle of branches or leaves. Her foot crunched against something small and hard. Leaning down in curiosity, she retrieved the exoskeleton of an enormous insect. It easily exceeded her fist in size. Armored plates covered a jointed body, with ten or twelve legs to either side. A narrow head set with crushing mandibles and a tail terminating in a crooked tip polished the monstrosity off. Some other creature had gnawed at it, hollowing out the armor until it was a harmless and empty shell. But the sheer size of the dead thing in her hand set her to shivering.

Closing her fingers around this gruesome discovery, she proceeded further uphill. The land crested and changed; she had reached the top of the rise, and now looked down into a valley below. A building sat in the hollow of the valley – a set of buildings, really, dome-topped like the poisonous mushrooms she had been told never to eat in the wild. Mist settled primly about the fortress' walls and base, making it seem to float on a cloud.

"You're up early," a soft voice said behind her.

Starting so badly that she dropped the dead insect to the ground, Satine spun around. "There you are," she sputtered, lamely.

Obi Wan used the Force to flick the exoskeleton into his own hand. He peered at it grimly. "Breakfast?"

"You Jedi pride yourselves on not being picky," she retorted. "I hope you don't mind it cold and uncooked."

"I've had worse," he remarked, still turning the thing over in his hand. "This is a …venomite, I think. I saw one once, in a biology tutorial. Master Shantu said they live in swarms of ten thousand or so."

Satine did not ask who Master Shantu was. "It was quite alone," she insisted.

But he did not look convinced. "They are relatives of the firebeetle," he said, in the dry academic tone he used to mask any personal emotion. "Only more venomous. Which explains the name." Then he smiled and tossed the thing out over the valley in a long arc. It plummeted into the treeline below. "Do you recognize that compound down there?" he asked, abruptly changing the topic. This meant that the venomite discovery had touched a nerve, Satine noted. She was coming to know him quite well.

"No," she admitted, gazing down at the simple, squat architecture. "What is it?"

"It's B'Omarr style," he mused. "Probably not inhabited. The monks are harmless enough, anyway. They spend their lives trying to escape the shackles of bodily existence."

"You sound as though you disapprove," she countered. "I would think such asceticism would be familiar to you, as a Jedi."

He raised his eyebrows. "We also believe in the simplest path to a goal. Master Windu once said that if one wishes to throw off the chains of bodily existence, there is no need to spend thirty years doing it…it's a simple matter of jumping off a cliff or –"

"Stop," Satine commanded, irked by his levity. "Even to jest about such things is to show irreverence for life. You Jedi deal in death too lightly for my taste."

He turned away, looking at the distant B'Omarr castle, or monastery, or abandoned ruins. "I didn't kill that bounty hunter on the ship," he said after a moment. "though likely I should have."

She understood. He had held back for her sake, as a conscious bow to her pacifist beliefs. But he strongly suspected that the act had been unwise, that the relentless bounty hunters were even now pursuing them…

"We're safe," she assured him. "Stop worrying."

His sarcastic reply was cut short by a ping from the comlink. "Master!" he exclaimed, in evident relief, thumbing the device to transmit mode.

Qui Gon Jinn's voice came through garbled by static. "I've downloaded the pod's coordinates from this link," he said. "But I don't have a mobile amplifier. Stay put."

"We will," Obi Wan promised. "I'm tired of running around."

* * *

><p>Qui Gon unwired his comlink from the public comm. hub and wedged the loose ends of circuitry back into their panel as best he could. It had required a small act of vandalism to get his transmission through effectively, but the situation left him little choice. Noting that the longitude of Obi Wan's position was halfway across the continent, he grimaced. His next task would be to acquire a fast transport, for nothing.<p>

Fortunately he had plenty of experience in wheeling and dealing – and on occasion, outright swindling.

It didn't take long to find a gambling establishment. The sun was just setting on this city – presumably the largest city on planet, since it contained the only major medcenter – and the holoboards and flashing nighttime lights were beginning to transform the downtown sector. The first two casinos turned him away at the door because his tattered and filthy clothing did not meet dress code expectations, but he was admitted freely to the last – a boisterous establishment styling itself "The Brain Jar."

Chuckling inwardly at this bit of insouciance – a reference to the B'Omarr monks' bizarre retirement habits – he entered the already crowded interior. On worlds where the economy suffered, and people could only dream of better living conditions, gambling often took firm root. Pelion was no exception. Humans and others eagerly pursued games of chance and the card tables were full.

He found a large table near the back of the room, where a circle of half-drunken patrons played sabaac. Waiting until the last round was finished and the curreny and IOU slips had been divvied up, Qui Gon slipped in and sat down for the next hand. A tall shaggy Whiphid grunted something on his right, and slammed a fifty credit piece on the table. With a sigh, Qui Gon emptied his money pouch. Fifty credits. He would be obliged to win this round just to stay in play. Ah, well. He trusted in the Force and his luck – though there was no such thing – and his skill. After all, he was somewhat skilled at sabaac.

When he won the first hand, as expected, the Whiphid grunted something else and slammed another fifty credits down. Like bees attracted to rich pollen, others drifted toward the table, fascinated by the high stakes. Soon there were ten players, and a whole gaggle of onlookers. Somebody offered the Jedi a drink. He waved it away; he needed to concentrate. The dealer slid his cards across the table, and the game began again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 8**

"Doesn't this piece of junk go any faster?" Thwarp complained.

The Phindian police officer pushed the ground-speeder to its maximum velocity, but they still weren't making enough headway for Thwarp's taste.

"Tracking report says meteoric activity was miimal this morning. Just a few occurrences, all over the western coast," the Phindian grunted.

"That would be the escape pods off that liner," Thwarp explained. "I told you. Your man is out there on the coast, evading the law."

"Three of them landed in the ocean. For all we know, he might have drowned."

But Thwarp doubted it. Jedi were like mynocks – resilient, indestructible. Well, almost indestructible. Wait till he got his hands on this one. As soon as he knocked off the lady, he would take his sweet time over her bodyguard. Of course, he was going to have to hit the policeman, in the end. Too bad; Thwarp was starting to like the guy. But business was business – and while the Phindian was more than willing to take a small incentive bribe, he would in no way be at ease with a pair of contracted executions. The police on every system had a very narrow view of Thwarp's professional activities. Pity.

"Here we are," the Phindian announced after a marathon journey in during which they passed from night into early day. "Estimated coordinates are within a two klick radius. We'll have to scout it out on foot."

Thwarp checked that his blasters and other precautionary equipment were functional and ready to hand. "Right," he said. "I recommend extreme caution. This guy is armed and dangerous."

"We'll find the pod first, and then we'll look for prints and other evidence," the police officer decided. "I have some shock-net wires here in the cargo box…" He rummaged in the back of the speeder and emerged with a compact toolkit. "And some selpium grenades."

Thwarp was impressed. Shock wire? Knock out grenades? These Pelioni cops must be up against some tough customers in their day to day gig. That or a whole lot of angry mobs. Fine by him – the more the merrier. That was one of his bounty-hunting mottos. Many hands made light work.

The comm. tracker located the pod for them. Somebody had left its transceiver keyed to an open channel. Stupid. Or desperate. There was no sign of the escapees, but the Phindian suggested that they conceal themselves and wait for the villains to return to their camp, which was a short walk from the crash site. Thwarp readily agreed. Let the Jedi make the first move. After that….well, after that, the fun would begin. He flopped down behind a large boulder, rolled himself a bacci stick, offered his temporary partner one, and waited.

* * *

><p>Dust motes floated in gentle spirals between the white and grey shafts of the trees, and the lonesome cooing of torple-doves softly textured the late afternoon silence. In the sinking sun's golden light, every shape stood out in sharp, beautiful clarity, edged with blue and purple shadows. Satine descended the steeply sloping hillside as gracefully as she did everything, one hand held elegantly beside her for balance, the other holding a long staff of freshly stripped sapling wood – a makeshift quarterstaff with which she had practiced her first lessons in self defense.<p>

"I still don't approve, you know," she called over her shoulder as she picked her way down the grassy incline.

"I know," Obi Wan answered, feeling amiable. The afternoon had been pleasant, a welcome relief from the harried and fearful weeks that lay behind them. He could almost imagine that he was back in the Temple, perhaps walking through the Room of a Thousand Fountains after a strenuous but satisfying bout in the dojo….but then, it was impossible to insert Satine into the imaginary tableau. She belonged in quite other surroundings. Her haughty demeanor, foreign ideals, and saucy, self-confident manner of speech were entirely at odds with Jedi notions of humility and restraint.

He strode behind her, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine, the chime-like harmony of the birdcalls, and the small forest sounds that pattered and rustled beneath them – and then he came to dead halt.

Satine ran to the crest of the hill and stood at the edge of the next downward slope. "Race you to the bottom!" she cried, playfully. She took endless delight in challenging him, though she rarely won the contest. When he did not respond, she hesitated and backtracked a few paces, peering at him in alarm. "Danger?"

He nodded, once. "Stay here," he ordered.

"No," Satine protested. "DO you suppose I lack the courage to go further? I should think that by now –"

"Shush," he cut her off. That wasn't the reason at all. He didn't want her to follow because she was a tremendous distraction. Because his concern for her safety might override his better instincts. Because – well, because he sensed a confrontation looming on the horizon and he didn't want her to see what might happen. What he might have to do to protect her.

He crept to the edge of the rise on his belly and peered over. The pod sat below, in the open, surrounded by a scattering of boulders and a few stray trees and bushes. He could see nothing out of the ordinary. But in the Force he sensed the presence of two hostile and intelligent beings hiding behind the rocks on the left. He thought he recognized one of them, and his heart sank.

The bounty hunter had managed to track them all the way down here. The prudent thing to do would be to abandon this camp and move on. But Qui Gon had only this single set of coordinates to locate them; and the pod contained the majority of their food, water purification tabs, med supplies, and survival gear. Without it they would be at the mercy of the elements. Letting out a long breath, he rose and returned to Satine, who sat sulking on the ground a few meters away.

"They've found us again," he informed her flatly.

"And you're not going to charge down there like a madman and slice everyone in the vicinity to bits?" Satine feigned amazement. "You're improving. That's almost civilized of you."

"I'm not going to fight them," he grumbled. "Not if I don't have to. Another solution will present itself."

"How clever," Satine quipped, displeasure still tinting her voice. "And when exactly will this brilliant idea manifest itself?"

That was a good question. He gazed at the glowing horizon, where the sun had just disappeared. Should they retreat uphill? Into the forest? Toward the bounty hunter and his associate? And why did this whole situation remind him so strongly of the archive text he had been studying only a day before? What had been the solution to that riddle?

"Well?" the Duchess demanded.

He ignored her. Infuriating woman. How long until Qui Gon arrived? How had the assassin outpaced the Jedi master? For that matter, how had their foe arrived in the first place? A thought: the men waiting below must have a transport. Now that held definite possibilities. His mind latched onto this thin thread, separating it from the tangle of his thoughts.

"We'll set a fire," he said, making up his mind. "Over there." He set about gathering fallen wood and dry brush in a heap, and kicked a few stones around it to contain the burning pile in one place. His lightsaber's blade held a few centimeters above the mound soon had it smoking and then smouldering, and a quick, well-placed breath fanned the infant flames to full life. The fire flickered merrily in the darkening woods.

Satine, who had not offered to help, stood with hands on hips. "You may as well have lit a beacon," she observed. "They'll come straight up here."

"Exactly," he grinned. "Give me your cloak." He made a few other preparations. "And we'll head down to the camp, to commandeer the transport they so thoughtfully brought with them."

She cocked her head to one side, favoring him with an arch look. "I thought stealing would be against the Jedi Code."

"We'll donate it to a charitable cause when we're finished with it," he promised, grabbing her hand and pulling her along at a crouching trot along the ridge of the slope, out of sight from the clearing below. They lay down side by side under a sill-berry bush, amid the soft leaves of several seasons, and waited.


	9. Chapter 9

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 9**

A passage from the Pelioni Land Redistribution Initiative manifesto:

_All those who dwell on Pelion work hard to provide the means of continued existence for themselves and their families. This work is never done, and is never sufficient. Why? Because we lack access to our own natural resources. Land that could be farmed lies fallow. Minerals that could be harvested lie hidden. Even the salt marshes and the coastlines' rich treasures lie wasted and unused._

_We break our backs and then trade at unjust prices with outlying systems, to provide the basics of life. We have no hope of acquiring modern industry outside our capital, for we have no firm economic footing on which to establish it. We have a population in the millions but only one full medcenter. We have but three spaceports. We have no unified comm. or transport regulation agency. Our government is indebted, and therefore fearful and weak. We have no security, no pride. We are dependent on others for our survival._

_There is no need for us to live thus. The land and its riches exist to support life – the life of the Pelioni people. Yet ninety percent of that land is set aside as sacred to the B'Omarr monks, who dwelt here before most our ancestors arrived as colonists from the Core. We did not object to their pre-extant rights. We did not steal from them. We took what was left over, worked with it as best we could. Now, countless generations later, that leftover part is not enough. And the B'Omarr order is all but extinct. The last census reported that fewer than one hundred monks are still resident in their palatial strongholds._

_Why does our entire world lie reserved for the use of people who are long dead or vanished? The law does not reflect reality here on Pelion. There is no longer any B'Omarr tradition to preserve. Therefore, the possessions of this tradition pass by default to the people. If we were to reclaim the land and rights afforded the B'Omarrr monks at the height of their influence, we could pay our planetary debt, provide food, work, and opportunity for all our citizens, and look to the future with hope not only of survival but of prosperity._

_Join the Land Redistribution Initiative today. Help us make the government see reason. Help us take back from the dead, that which belongs to the living._

Qui Gon Jinn perused the remainder of the flimsiplast brochure and deposited it in a cycling bin near the transport dealer's front door. He had read similar literature from scores of systems, and studied the parallel revolutionary movements – some peaceful, others not – which followed inevitably oin the heels of such sentiment. The Pelioni were not a belligerent culture, and the B'Omarr were certainly not about to fight a war to defend their hereditary rights….even if there were any of them left. The transition was logical and would cause few planetary repercussions.

The problems, when they came, would originate outside Pelion. This world's economic independence from trade was something the various mercantile and shipping guilds would _never_ support. The Galactic Senate would be petitioned – that is to say, bribed – to uphold the defunct B'Omarr order's rights, and a legal battle would ensue. Likely the Pelioni would take the land anyway, and then face prosecution as violators of Republic law. The Trade Guilds would be able to move in, establish ownership of the planet's resources as "steward-protectors," and control even the ten percent the natives now held. A disaster all the way around.

Enough years as a Jedi and one became deeply cynical about the ways of politicians and the corporate interests that pulled their marionette strings. For a moment he regretted having tossed away the pamphlet, thinking that perhaps he should have saved it as an interesting exercise in analysis for his Padawan. But upon further consideration he decided that his apprentice would have seen the implications of the Pelioni situation all too quickly. He probably would have offered some characteristically acid remark such as, _A politician working for the Trade Federation wrote all this propaganda, master._

Obi Wan had the cynicism of a well-seasoned curmudgeon. Except, apparently, where the young Duchess of Mandalore was concerned.

Burying this worrisome thought beneath a pile of more pressing matters, he entered the shop, fingering the hefty bag of sabaac winnings in his pocket. He should have enough funds to purchase a serviceable speeder – one able to take him to the escape pod's crash site on the other side of this sprawling continent.

"Help you?" a lazy humanoid drawled from behind the service counter which separated the customer reception area from the back lots.

"Yes," the Jedi addressed this person. "I'm looking to buy a speeder. It needn't be fancy, just reliable."

The dealer snorted and sat back on his stool, tapping a pudgy finger against his datascreen's monitor. "How much you lookin' to spend, sir?" he asked. "Around here, reliable _is_ fancy. You must be from offworld. Most folks here don't have two spare credits to rub together."

Qui Gon nodded solemnly. Yes, he had been on such worlds before. Things deemed basic necessities on a Core world like Coruscant were elevated to the status of luxuries in such places. "I understand," he said. "What can you give me for, say, fifteen hundred?"

The humanoid behind the counter snorted again and chuckled at length, his multiple chins waggling as he laughed at Qui Gon's expense. "Okay – okay," he gasped. "I get it. You don't want a speeder. You want a bike. I got a couple scoop jobs out back – not that I'm promisin' reliable. But I'll give you yer pick for fifteen hundred."

Qui Gon pressed his mouth into a thin line. A scoop bike? That would hardly be of any use once he made the rendezvous destination. The bike could carry one at most – and he wasn't even sure the notoriously break-down prone vehicle would bear his weight halfway across the continent. Still, he had little choice. "Very well," he agreed. "Let me see these bikes of yours."

Half a standard hour and some intricate haggling later, he found himself in possession of a rusted and scarred scoop bike with engine parts patched together from several different models. He had a full fuel cell, however – and three hundred or so in local currency left over, due to his skill at driving a hard bargain. The shopkeeper waved him off merrily, no doubt happy to have made any kind of sale at all. Or perhaps because the sight of Qui Gon's long legs bent like a grass-jumper's almost to his chest to fit the short foot-rests was so absurdly amusing.

It wasn't a very dignified beginning to a long journey…but what was it Yoda was so fond of saying? _Better to appear a fool than a wise man. Welcome everywhere is the fool, welcome nowhere is wisdom. _The wise man might possibly feel more comfortable astride a properly proportioned speeder bike, in any case.

Qui Gon gunned the scoop's pathetic engines and sped on his way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 10**

Once night had claimed the landscape for its own, Devrill Thwarp spotted a faint twinkling just over the nearest rise. He nudged the Phindian police officer in the arm. "Look at that," he said. "That's a campfire. They're up behind the first tree-line."

The Phindian peered through a pair of heavy duty macrobinoculars. "Sure is," he confirmed a moment later. "Wonder why they're all the way up there."

"In case anyone like us comes creeping around," Devrill supplied. "Remember, this guy's a hardened criminal. He's used to being on the run. Naturally suspicious, cautious. We'll need to go round the whole ridge – climb up on that western bit there – see? And then come down from above. They'll be watching the pod."

The security officer nodded in agreement and set off toward the far side of the undulating ridge. He was a stolid, respectable fellow – for a legal type. Thwarp didn't have much use for police in general, even the ones he liked in a personal way. But his new partner had an important function in this game. Hopefully his attempt to arrest the young Jedi would provide just enough distraction time for Devrill to polish off the Duchess. With any luck the police officer wouldn't survive the encounter with the Jedi; witnesses to a hit were always inconvenient to have around, especially when they carried a badge.

The bounty hunter trudged up the steep western slope, keeping the campfire's fretful light in his peripheral vision. A low, thrumming noise teased the edge of his senses. Sounded like insects, too low and too constant to pinpoint. Maybe those forest creepers that rubbed their wings together. They were pretty loud here, he thought. As he ascended the hill to a point far above the campsite, he noticed a few forest animals dash and scamper away underfoot. Something had them spooked, all right. Full moons tonight? He glanced up. Yep. All three were shining with bright round faces. Weird place, this Pelion.

He paused at the top of the last ridge and waited for an all-clear signal from the opposite side. The security officer had reached the top already – he must be in better shape than he looked, for the climb had been taxing. Unholstering one of his custom blasters, he started the quiet, stealthy descent down toward the fire, setting his feet sideways as he slipped along the steep hill's mossy side. Was he imagining things, or was the gorund slightly vibrating underfoot? Nah…it couldn't be. Or maybe there was water running in a subterranean stream nearby. That might be it.

He crept a little closer…a little closer…there were two people rolled in dirty cloaks by the fire. What a couple of rookies! They hadn't even set up a sentry – overconfident and foolish. Devrill waved a hand at the shadowed form of the police officer a few meters away, on the other side of the small clearing, and sprang forward. They leapt into the clearing as one, weapons ready, and each seized hold of a sleeping figure, ripping the cloaks aside –

"Damn!" Devrill shouted.

The cloaks shrouded nothing but a pile of branches and dead leaves.

"Where are they?" the policeman yelled back, head slewing about wildly, expecting an ambush at any moment. His blaster swept back and forth wildly over the span of surrounding trees.

"Put that down, you nosski," Thwarp growled, grabbing the blaster's muzzle and shoving it away from his own face. "They're not here. They're….hells!" he added, realizing where they must have gone. "Your speeder! Quick!"

Scrambling now, the need for secrecy forgotten, their only purpose now to prevent the theft of their vehicle and to avoid a lengthy spell stranded out here in the thinly populated wilderness of the north continent, they slithered and crashed through the bracken in a desperate race against time.

But they were too late.

* * *

><p>"Slow down!" Satine panted, stumbling in Obi Wan's wake, her fingers vainly striving to twist free of his tight, unrelenting grip.<p>

The young Jedi just picked up speed, tugging her along by one arm, the awful buzzing vibro-saw noise echoing in the forest all round them. He didn't know from whence it came, or what made it; but the Force was alight – painfully, blindingly full. It smeared his vision with terrible danger, raked fire-hot down his spine, and screamed in his mind: _Flee, flee, flee!_ The panic and terror of a million small, irrational life forms running beneath them, around him, refracted his own disquiet into a sharp, scintillating intensity.

"Obi Wan!" Satine shrieked at him, as she lost her footing and he lifted her bodily off the ground, leaping the last few meters to the clearing in one tremendous bound, his heart hammering with a fear that was not wholly his own. They had reached the pod. He dropped her to her feet, keeping a commanding grip around her forearm. She struggled against him vainly. "What is it?"

"I don't know," he gritted out. The disturbed Force crashed against his mind in waves, colossal walls of drowning fear. Wild animals sprinted past, headed back up the hill, their rolling eyes showing white in panic. The ground shook like a starfighter under full acceleration.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" the Duchess stormed, her anger now a whiplash of ice crossing the other currents, a stunning counterpoint to blind animal terror. Her eyes – blue ice, glacial, majestic – cut like knives.

_You are!_ He shouted silently, releasing his raging frustration into the Force, where it was whirled away in to the chaotic inferno of the oncoming danger. Focus. Focus. The bounty hunter's speeder was a short distance ahead; the bounty hunter himself was not far behind. His furious voice could just be heard over the omnipresent buzzing din. He was coming back down the slope, hard on their heels. Obi Wan could feel, like a shrill horn above thunderous drums, the man's frantic desire to stop him from reaching the speeder.

"You're afraid!" the Duchess accused him, as though this were something he had no right to be. He snarled an incoherent and unbecoming curse in return, aware – no, _assaulted_ – by the overwhelming mindless death crashing over the land like a tremendous tidal wave. He gritted his teeth and pulled Satine to the speeder, practically threw her into the passenger seat and dropped in beside her, toggling controls, seeking the ignition coupler, the thrust activator, the repulsors. He found the ignition, punched it, lifted them a meter off the shaking ground. He seized the yoke and spun them about.

And there it was, stark in the light of the three moons, who stared down agape. A sea of dark bodies – millions and millions of them, massed together and blotting out the land. The air shook with their coming, and the sight of the oceanic, swelling swarm took his breath away. Satine cried out something in Mandoa – some primal imprecation born of instinct and sheerest awe. It was the exoskeleton they had found in the forest, multiplied to an obscene impossibility and brought to ravenous life.

"_What are those things?"_

"Let's not find out." He slammed the accelerators to full and they shot forward, back past the escape pod, with the nightmarish horde growing ever them. As they passed, he caught a glimpse of the bounty hunter and another person madly yanking the crashed pod's hatch open and tumbling inside the battered hull. Would such a thin shell of metal protect them from the insects? There was no way to guess, and no time to stay and offer help…even if he had been so inclined. Instead he pointed the nose of the speeder up the hill they had just descended, threading it between tree trunks and whipping around boulders at breakneck velocity, leaving the rushing swarm behind.

In a moment they were approaching their faked campsite, the smouldering fire. A flicker of new danger warned him, and he pulled the speeder up and away – but not fast enough.

The razor thin trip wire stretched across the nearest trees caught the bottom of the front intakes, sending the small craft spinning. The speeder whipped away beneath them and careened into another tree, exploding upon impact; both its passengers were tossed with causal violence into the air. Obi Wan twisted, wrapped himself tight around Satine and fell as softly as he could, calling on the Force to cushion their landing.

It was still painful. He hit the ground hard, felt rocks slide beneath his shoulder blades, tumbled and rolled and skidded over the uneven earth, and came to rest flat on his back with Satine sprawled indecorously atop him.

She hastily pushed up and brushed dust and pine needles off her clothing, coughing and sucking in short, pained breaths. Shakily, she turned around, and then went rigid. "Get up!" she ordered. "Up! Now! They're coming!"

Groaning, he found his feet. His head was reeling, and his lungs ached. But she was right – the deafening buzz of the approaching creatures hammered against his senses and his mind at once. Birds screeched and flapped away overhead, fleeing the invasion. He looked at the burning and mangled ruin that had been the speeder. No way of escape there.

"They'll be here in a second!" Satine shouted.

His groping fingers found the cable launcher at his belt and shot its grappling end into the nearest tree's lofty branches. Already the first of the clawed, armored insects was scuttling over the ridge. Behind them swelled a mountain of others, pouring over and around each other like a gruesome mudslide running horribly, impossibly uphill. Satine flung both arms around his chest and he made a mighty leap upward, retracting the cable as he sprang. At the zenith of his jump, the line went taut and yanked them up a few extra meters, onto a high branch. There they perched, Satine clinging to him for balance, while the black sea crashed against the trunk of their tree and rolled over the campsite, smothering the fire and everything below in a blanket of seething legs and mandibles. And then the things began to climb – hungrily ascending the the tree itself in search of prey.

"Hang on," he called, and made another desperate flying leap into the night air.


	11. Chapter 11

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 11**

Qui Gon Jinn uttered a few choice phrases under his breath and unbent from his critical inspection of the scoop bike's intakes. They were clotted and jammed beyond repair, leaving him stranded on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. The good news was that he had only five or six hundred klicks to go. The bad news was that he had no way to get there.

Abandoning the useless speeder to its fate, he set off on foot along the edge of the badly maintained road – a leftover from the days of groundcars and heavy repulsor driven convoys. Pelion had but three major spaceports; consequently the planet relied on a network of long distance shipping routes to transport imported goods from these centers to the outlying regions. This route was a major artery in the network, running roughly east and west on a single latitude across most the habitable northern continent.

The three full moons rose in the sky and smiled down on him as he walked. The exercise warmed his blood, and he rested in the present moment. Long ago he had learned that anxiety produced nothing but exhaustion. The Force would provide a way; it always had, and it always would. But as he walked a trickle of apprehension forced its way through the normally impenetrable armor of his serenity. Again and again he fended it off, supposing it to be nothing more than instinctual uneasiness at the solitude and the dark.

And then he recognized it for what it was: his discomfort was not on his own behalf at all. Five hundred klicks away, his Padawan was in trouble. After ten years spent training and meditating together, and navigating not a few truly harrowing situations, he and Obi Wan shared a deep and subtle Force bond. The certainty that trouble was brewing and the knowledge that he was stranded here, unable to help, threatened to disturb his calm even further. His stride quickened and his hand closed around the hilt of his saber.

He was so involved in his own thoughts that he did not see the lights of the huge repulsor convoy truck until it was nearly upon him. Startling out of his reverie, Qui Gon leapt into the center of the road and waved the driver down. The engine ground to thrumming halt a mere meter from his feet, and its line of ten tethered cargo palettes bumped together, cushioned by the magnetic energy bonds that linked them in a long chain.

"Hey, nosski face!" a greasy Besalisk hollered at him from the cab. "Outta the road. Next time I flatten you and leave for carrion breakfast. Chiiiiisszk."

"But this time you would be happy to do me a small service," Qui Gon retorted, making a gentle motion with one hand.

"Service?" the driver muttered, narrowing small eyes suspiciously. "How's this?"

The Jedi frowned. Besalisk were well known for being semi-opaque to Force influence. The mind trick had little effect, he could see. He took a few paces forward. "I would be willing to pay…oh….a few hundred to catch a ride as far this direction as you can take me."

The driver's throat sack bulged out. "Far as I can take you, huh? There's nothing out on the coast for you. Last stop's outside B'Omarri forest. There's chisszk there for decent people. What's your business?"

"No business. Just touring," Qui Gon answered evasively. "You don't need to know my business."

Again the mind trick had just enough persuasive influence to nudge the reptilian's mind onto another topic. "You can come in," he grunted, jerking an enormous thumb at the opposite cab door. "But not allowed to carry passenger. Cost you seven hundred."

Settling himself in the seat next to the driver – one four times too large for him – the Jedi master studied his burly companion carefully. "Seven hundred, hm? You are not allowed to take on hitchhikers. I understand. But nobody can tell you not to make a little wager for amusement. Am I right?"

"What? Bet? I like," the driver nodded, thrusting the tractor into motion again, and dragging the long convoy of crates back into reluctant motion.

"Arm wrestling," Qui Gon proposed. "Seven hundred to the winner."

The Besalisk laughed and laughed, and proceeded to floor the accelerator, sending them flying along the worn road at a dangerous speed. "Ha ha!" he roared, flexing his gargantuan, tattooed arm. "I break your arm at next stop. You lose."

"My pleasure," the tall Jedi replied, very pleased indeed to be on his way again.

* * *

><p>It was hot and cramped inside the escape pod. And worst of all, it stank of some wench's perfume. That nasty little Mandalorian vixen. This was all her fault.<p>

Thwarp leaned back against the curved interior hull of the pod and stuck his feet up on the opposite wall. His companion, the Phindian police officer, was not dealing with this situation well. Maybe the guy was claustrophobic. Or maybe he was afraid of bugs. Sure as hell were plenty of those outside. In either case, the guy was close to being a nut job.

"They're going to get in," the fellow moaned, clutching at the sides of his elongated head. "That door will never hold. Or they'll chew through the outer shell, through the insulation. They'll pile in here. We'll drown in them! And they'll eat us alive. Do you know that? Do you?"

Thwarp sighed and rolled his eyes. "What are those star-forsaken things anyway, eh?"

The native Pelioni stared at him, stricken. "Venomites," he moaned, despairingly. They live underground. Once a year – once – they emerge and move down the coast to breed. They destroy everything in their path, including each other. Only a third of them survive, you know. And those that survive _eat_ those that don't. They're unstoppable – and very, very deadly. The venom…it causes paralysis…nerve damage. Death eventually. It's a horrible way to go - if they don't eat you alive first. It's terrible. And animal control can't do a thing about it. There are too many. Too many. Might be a hundred million in that swarm. Really."

"Huh," Thwarp responded, mildly intrigued. "Destroy everything in their path on the way to the breeding grounds? Knew a girl like that once. Lovely character….good shot, too."

But the police officer was beyond hearing him. "We have to run for it before it's too late," he insisted.

"What?" Thwarp shifted his weight so that he was blocking the hatch access controls. The pod shook back and forth , vibrating as wave upon wave of maddened venomites crashed against it, clawing futilely at the shielding designed to withstand atmospheric re-entry. "They can't get in here. And I'd say it's way too late to make a run for it."

"Please," the poor distracted Phindian begged. "I can't take this anymore. I can't be in here another minute. Open the hatch."

"No," Thwarp said.

The security officer howled and lunged at Thwarp, his hands clawing for the hatch controls behind the bounty hunter. There was the hot sizzling twang of a bolt fired at close quarters, a cry of agony…and the Phindian slumped over dead on top of Thwarp's outstretched legs.

He kicked aside the corpse and spat out a curse of annoyance. Now he was stuck in this tiny stinking capsule with a dead Phindian, on top of everything else. He re-holstered his blaster, shifted his weight again to a more comfortable position, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. The insect swarm continued to pour on and on, overhead and all around. It was almost like the soothing sound of rainfall. He leaned back, folded his hands over his chest, and decided to take a much deserved nap.

With any luck, the venomites would take care of the Duchess and the Jedi. He could just collect a few odd bones for proof, and be on his way. Thank you, mother nature. The universe was a truly wonderful place. With this happy thought, he closed his eyes and nodded off, while the torrent of death ceaselessly washed over his tiny stronghold.


	12. Chapter 12

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 12**

Satine felt her arms shake, and her grip loosen, despite the strident, terrified urging of her will. She barely had strength left to hold on. Below them, behind them, on every side, the dreadful insectoid hunters gave chase – inexorably drawing nearer, crawling now among the tree tops, swarming over the branches and the narrowest limbs, dropping down from high overhanging boughs, jumping from nearby clusters of leaves.

Obi Wan now had his saber in one hand, a defense against the more aggressive members of the swarm. He had destroyed dozens, hundreds, but the millions that seemed to pursue them did not slacken their pace. The Jedi leapt wildly from tree to tree, sometimes missing his footing and dropping a sickening handful of meters to another branch. More than once she had nearly lost her grip on him and plummeted to the forest floor. He had saved her each time, but she could tell that he was tiring. Jedi powers or no, the endless desperate retreat could not last forever.

Something cold and sharp landed on her back. She twisted and scrabbled at it with one arm, and her fingers found the legs of one of the monstrous creatures. She grabbed it and threw it away with all her might – yet it still bit deeply into her hand with its serrated mandibles. She twisted the bleeding hand into the fabric of Obi Wan's tunic and held on for dear life as they went sailing across open space again, this time falling horribly into the soft canopy of a shorter tree. Branches whipped and slashed at her face, and they came to a jolting halt. Satine's back slammed against the tree trunk.

"I'm sorry," Obi Wan grunted, wobbling on the narrow branch. His voice was taut with exhaustion. His free hand came up and tightened around hers – felt the blood slicking her skin and dampening his tunic. "You're hurt. What happened?"

"One of those things," she answered, feeling woozy. Was the bite poisonous?

The scuttling and buzzing of the horde was directly on their heels. "We have to go," he said. "Can you hold on?"

Could she? She didn't know. Did it even matter? She buried her face against his shoulder and held on, as they jumped again, and again, each time landing more precariously. And then, suddenly, Obi Wan shouted out – a sharp cry of surprise or pain, she could not tell which – and they were falling. She felt the rush of cold air against her cheek, felt the long swooping drop to the ground. And then they were rolling on hard earth again, over and over, battered and bruised by small rocks and unforgiving tussocks of earth. She felt the Jedi's grip slacken, felt herself slide helplessly down a steep cliff-face, dust and pebbles and dry leaves cascading down on every side.

When she reached the bottom, all she could see was the sky circling lazily above. Green edged it, and there was a terrible buzzing clamor inside her head. She could not move her leg – when she reached down for it, her fingers came away bloody. Or was that from the bite on her hand? She could not remember…

More dust and pebbles rolled down in a small torrent, and Obi Wan appeared by her side. A long thin cut ran from his temple to his jaw, oozing dark droplets, and his face was streaked with sweat and grime. He pressed a hand to her wounded leg.

"Satine."

"You dropped me," she complained, watching the world reel and sway. Was she going to faint? How pathetic. He would never respect her if she fainted, like a soft, spoiled noblewoman…Mandalorians did _not_ faint…

He was picking her up in two arms now, like a child. But she was too dizzy and weak to register a protest. And she could hear the venomites coming ever nearer, hear them laughing and calling their names as they came, hungry, murderous, pitiless…

"Nowhere to go," she mumbled. She let her head drop against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, strong and fast, a defiant battle cry in the face of invincible death.

"The monastery," he grunted, setting off again. "It's just ahead. There's a ravine and a bridge over the river. If we can make it to the bridge…" He started running. The jostling motion made her feel sick, made every pain in her body flare white hot. But a Mandalorian – even a stalwart pacifist, even a radical counter-cultural like herself – did not surrender to pain or to fear. She gritted her teeth and stayed silent, counting the seconds…ten…thirty…a minute…

The venomites were behind them. Their legs made a horrible rattling sound as they clawed across the dry brush and dirt between the edge of the forest and the ravine.

Panting, Obi Wan dropped to one knee, letting her slide halfway to the ground. "The bridge," he gasped between heaving breaths. "It's down."

Horrified, she craned her head to look. The movement made the world tilt on its axis and her vision blurred for a moment. A suspension bridge of plasteel cables and some sort of pressed fiber dangled in ruins over the gorge, straggling unevenly down to the river which churned below. Only one cable remained moored to the far end, where the squat round towers of the B'Omarr monastery loomed against the purple sky, picked out in silver and red by the setting moons.

"Is it over?" she asked, simply. Because if this was the end, there was something she needed to tell him. Something which should not be left unsaid.

"No," he snapped, seeming to draw new strength from the very suggestion of failure. As though he could summon it out of the air, the ground, the forest. Perhaps he could…who really understood the Jedi, anyhow?

He scooped her up again, tightly, and bounded away for the bridge. Satine closed her eyes, past feeling fear, past screaming aloud. He set one foot on the dangerously narrow cable and then the other. She felt the swaying up and down motion of the steel wire as it bent beneath their combined weight, marveled in a detached sort of way that they did not plunge downward, felt Obi Wan take cautious step after cautious step, miraculously balanced over the fatal drop. She heard the ravaging insects find the edge of the cliff and scrabble down its sides, felt the cable vibrate beneath them as a few daring assailants began to claw their way along its length toward them.

Another step, another…and with a final leap, they reached the other side. There was a flash of blue light and a loud snapping hiss as the saber's blade sprang from its hilt, and with a single sweep Obi Wan severed the cable, sending the remains of the bridge and its hundreds of attached insects plummeting into the ravine and the seething river below.

Relieved, sobbing with the giddy sense of triumph, regardless of Mandalorian honour, Satine gave way to the inevitable and fainted.

* * *

><p>It was just before dawn when Gi Rass, the old gatekeeper, levered open the creaking doors and beheld the first visitors the monastery had seen in at least a decade.<p>

On the threshold stood a human youth, face streaked with sweat, grime, and not a little blood. In his arms he carried the pale, battered form of a woman, her garments as worn and faded as his. Her silver-gold hair caught Gi Rass' eye. Everyone here wore the customary shaven head – he had not seen such splendor in a long time. But then, it was nothing more than one of the countless deceptions played upon the ill-disciplined soul by the sensory world.

"Yes?" he rasped, forgetting now what the proper form of etiquette to greet a visitor would be. Besides, etiquette was one of the million forms of deception practiced upon the soul by the illusions of society, nothing one should be concerned with.

"We need help," the young man said. He had a pleasant voice, Gi Rass thought. "She's hurt. Do you have a healer? A medic?"

Gi Rass hesitated. Compassion was one of the numberless deceptions practiced upon the unguarded heart by the emotional world, which was but a slave and mimic of the sensory realm. He would not be so easily seduced. Perhaps this was a test sent to measure his fortitude. "We do not hold with the ways of medicine," he explained. "Pain is an illusion, and the destruction of the body a welcome release from bondage."

The youth's mouth thinned to a displeased line. There was somehitng not so pleasant about him, too, Gi Rass noted. And unless he was much mistaken, the gleaming object hanging at his belt was some kind of weapon.

"Then let us shelter here and rest," the young man insisted. "Please."

But Gi Rass knew the proper response to this. "Only those who wish to share our way of life may enter these walls. Do you wish to join us as an initiate?"

"As your guest," the youth answered. "I am a Jedi. Do you not accept visitors from another Order?"

That was more difficult. Gi Rass rubbed at his scratchy pate. "You come to…seek wisdom at the feet of the Illuminated Ones?" he asked, struggling to comprehend the strangers' motives.

The visitor shifted impatiently, glancing down at the sickly white face of the woman. "Yes," he replied tersely. "Yes. Will you let us in?"

"Patience! Patience," Gi Rass muttered, turning and shuffling forward into the main vault. "Come this way. I will show you to some sleeping quarters which are no longer used. When you have overcome the weakness of sleep, I shall show you to the Illuminated Ones. They have not spoken to any Jedi in many, many years."

"Thank you," the young man said, as Gi Rass closed the ponderous doors behind them.


	13. Chapter 13

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 13**

Fable of the Foxills and the Hound, a Mandalorian folk tale:

_Once there was a hound who aspired to be a great hunter like his sires before him. Yet every time he ran a foxill to ground the crafty beast would outwit him and escape before the hunter could lay teeth on him. At last, in frustration, feeling that his honor was at stake, the young hound consulted his elders._

_"Be faster," his swift uncle advised him. _

_"Be stronger," his mighty father told him._

_"Be stealthier," his light-footed brother commanded._

_But the young hound knew that none of these answers was the right one. To outwit the foxill, he would have to be wily as his foe. He went to his great grandfather, a hound so ancient that he was no longer swift nor strong nor agile._

_"Simple," the wise old animal told the young hunter. "You need only understand the foxill's strengths and weaknesses."_

_"His strengths are many," the young hound cried out. "He is strong, fast, agile, and above all clever. However shall I overcome him?"_

_The old hound laughed. "These will avail him nothing, for his weakness is greater than all these put together. The foxill will never abandon its mate. Next time, do not hunt him but rather the mother of his children."_

_"There is no honor in such a hunt!" the young hound objected._

_"No," the old one agreed. "But if you corner his mate, the foxill will not leave. He will stay and fight to the death before he allows you to lay teeth on his wife. In this way, you have cornered him: to save the other, he will readily submit to death, and you will triumph."_

_The young hunter considered this wisdom closely. "But that is so simple," he objected again._

_"Victory is simple, to those who understand it," the old hound said._

_In this way the hunting dog learned how to catch and kill a foxill. Ever after he did not waste time chasing and tracking his foe, but scented out and cornered his weaker mate. When his enemy did not run, unable to abandon his wife, he was swiftly overcome and slain. And the hound then feasted on not only him but his mate and children as well._

_Thus do the victorious. Remember._

"_That is how it goes," Satine ended the recitation. "I have always found it repugnant."_

"_But there is some truth in it," Obi Wan countered. "It is important to understand an enemy's motives and his weaknesses."_

_She frowned. "I suppose you Jedi have some equally heartless and cruel tradition?"_

_The Jedi smiled. "Oh, yes," he replied mischievously. "We have been rescuing cornered foxills for generations. The hounds do not take well to it, I assure you. Sometimes the foxills are ungrateful, also, now that you mention it."_

"…Not ungrateful," Satine murmured, swimming hazily up through the floating shred of memory, back to a present moment drenched in warm golden light.

"Hm?" Obi Wan's voice remained in the moment, not dissolving with the rest of the half-dream. She stirred feebly, wondering where she was. The light was everywhere, yet strangely placeless. Her limbs were pleasantly heavy.

"I'm not ungrateful," she repeated, already forgetting what the phrase signified.

"You're not ungrateful?" his voice repeated, inflecting the words with a twist of dry humor. "Does that mean you are _thanking_ me?"

Satine snapped into full awareness, blinking in confusion as her eyes took in the dark stone rafters of a small chamber, the curve of its ceiling, the age-stained panels of its walls. Where was the golden light? And why was Obi Wan so near, _touching _her – one hand lying just above the navel, his other resting lightly on her forehead? She pushed his arm away.

"Please don't," she said, the words a sharp command.

He sat back, rolling smoothly into a kneeling position. She was stretched out on a pallet, close to the floor. The air was cool, and smelt of dust and a stale spiced incense, long burnt out.

"Where are we?" she asked, gazing at him curiously. He looked worn, but tranquil. Emptied out. Relieved, perhaps.

"Inside the B'Omarr monastaery. They were kind enough to give us shelter last night. You were ill…a venomite injured you, and your leg was hurt."

She sat up, slowly, pushing her weight up cautiously. Images of their impossible flight from the swarm flashed before her eyes, and she turned her hand over in the thin light form a single high window. "I feel much better. I thought…" A sudden realization dawned, and with it came a thrill of hot anger. "Have you done something to me?"

He had the good grace to flinch a little. "It was necessary. You might have been seriously affected. And I don't – that is, I am not a trained healer, so –"

"You practiced some arcane skill on me while I was unconscious?" she demanded. "How dare you!" The feeling of vulnerability ran ahead of her mind, in collusion with her tongue. "Some obscure Jedi art you haven't even mastered properly? And you expect me to _thank _you?"

The scowl on his face did not quite match the wounded expression in his eyes, but she was far past caring. He could practice his occult healing techniques on his own feelings, if it came to that. She drew herself up sharply, and gestured at her leg, which was wrapped in a stiff bandage above the knee.

"It might take a little while to finish healing_,"_ he warned.

"I shall likely bear the scar for the rest of my life," she retorted, scathingly.

"Satine…"

She was determined to be _most_ displeased with his arrogance and presumption, but somehow, inexplicably, she felt her wrath smoulder into mere annoyance as she glared down at him. Relenting a little, she added, "I shall consider it a souvenir of this time we've spent together."

He smiled, then, and a faint echo of that elusive golden light warmed the air. How odd that a single jest from her lips could save a Jedi from the pits of dejection. They were, after all, emotionless and implacable. Capable of coolly manipulating the minds of others. What she could do, unawares, might be considered an impossible feat, a work of dark magic. The thought made her shudder slightly; did she really desire to wield such power? Should anyone?

Obi Wan stood. "I've promised our host that I would speak to his 'Illuminated Ones.' That was the condition of our admittance. And I intend to keep my word."

"Well, then," she replied, still wary of her unbidden power, striving for lightness. "I shall accompany you. You require a competent bodyguard, I think."

They took some time to locate the gatekeeper. He was not at his post when they checked; and in the ensuing attempt to find him in the monastery's corridors, they became lost. Or rather, Obi Wan feigned being lost. There was an eager, curious light in his eyes that suggested more of the small boy trespassing on some exotic, forbidden ground. Certainly he was able to navigate the passages and silent, empty halls without a moment's hesitation.

As they descended a spiralling staircase back to the main entrance hall's domed interior, three scuttling droids crossed one of the landings below them. At least, they looked like droids. A closer inspection revealed them to be…

"_Brains_?" Satine exclaimed, repulsed and fascinated at once.

Obi Wan took a few steps closer, but the droid-things moved on, their reverse articulated legs carrying them rapidly through a doorway and down a side passage like a clutch of oversized spiders fleeing and overzealous housekeeper.

"What are those horrible things?" Satine breathed when they had gone.

"Those?" he repeated, half-amused. "Those are the monks." In reply to her blank, uncomprehending stare, he elaborated, "I should say, those are the enlightened ones. I've read about them in the Temple archives. When the B'Omarri reach enlightenment- or what they call enlightenment- they dispense with their bodies. You can see the brain and spinal cord preserved in the chamber atop the walking apparatus. It's …certainly unqiue."

"It's madness," she corrected him. "How do they manage the process, I wonder?"

He shrugged. "Medical procedure. Probably droid-operated. I'm not sure. I have to admit, I never got that far in esoteric cultural studies. It's not my specialty."

She smiled. "What is?"

"Trouble." And he was off again, in pursuit of the elusive enlightened members of the B'Omarr community. But try as they might, they could not find the spidery beings again. Eventually Obi Wan gave up and found a route back to the entryway, where Gi Rass was waiting for them with a bemused expression.

"Where have you been?" he chided. "I have been looking for you."

"Our apologies," Satine soothed him, not wishing to appear rude to their host. "We were exploring the premises."

Gi Rass looked pained. "Overabundant concern for one's surroundings is a result of delusion." He swept a hand around the building's unadorned interior. "This is woven from the sensory world – a realm of shadow and illusion. There is nothing worthwhile to discover. Now, the words of the Illumined Ones: those might be worth seeking out. They have agreed to speak to you, stranger. They are eager to meet a Jedi. And being so close to final enlightenment, I am sure they will be able to help you gain wisdom, as well."

Obi Wan bowed. "I hope to leave the meeting a wiser man," he said, with that peculiar fleeting smile which accompanied any double-edged comment.

Gi Rass did not catch the twist in meaning. "Excellent," he said, folding his hands before him. "This way." His frayed and tattered robes swept a sinuous track across the dusty floor as he led them into the stronghold's inner recesses.


	14. Chapter 14

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 14**

Qui Gon bid the Besalisk convoy truck driver a grateful farewell and set off at a brisk pace across the wide fields separating the road from the forest's edge. At this point, he should be within comm. distance of the pod. He tried signaling Obi Wan via comlink, confident the short distance transceiver would relay his transmission- but there was no reply.

The sun was warm and the air delightfully cool, laden with the salty scent of the ocean which lay just over the hills on the horizon. As he walked, his knees brushed the tops of tall wild grasses. Soon enough he spotted a wide, flattened swath cutting through the grass, heading into the forest. It might be a trail created by large herd beasts. He changed direction slightly to approach this natural pathway….and then halted.

The trail was littered with corpses- thousands of them. Some heavily armored insectoid. He gingerly picked one up in three fingers and held it before his eyes. Mandibles, four sets of legs, a segmented rounded back….his mind searched backward in time, to all the places in the galaxy he had travelled, to all the creatures he had seen or heard tell of…

"Venomites." He murmured, memory clicking into place. Venomite swarm. This was not good. In fact, it was beyond bad. He remembered that one third of the venomites perished in the process of their annual migration. That they were extremely poisonous. That they swarmed in the millions and stopped for nothing.

He broke into a run then, covering the remainder of the distance to the forest's cool shadows at a long, loping pace. When he reached the first trees, he pinged for the escape pod on his comlink, and adjusted course. Why wasn't Obi Wan responding? Hopefully he had fled the swarm, retreated out of its path.

He found the pod easily enough. It was mangled and scarred, and the hatch was hanging ajar. Crunching his way through the piles of dead venomites, he reached the opening and swung the heavy door completely open. Slumped on the floor of the pod, twisted and reduced to a near-skeleton, was a body. The skeleton had an oddly elongated head – maybe Phindian. How this person came to be in the pod he had no idea.

Shutting the hatch on this grisly sight, he scanned the trees ahead. There was a series of rises leading to low foothills. This range must separate the coastline from the grasslands he had just crossed. It was the only possible route to avoid the swarm - although the trail of hollow exoskeletons continued up the slope, a testament to overwhelming frenzy. He cut the transponder beacon out of the pod's side and salvaged the power cell. This he wired into his own comlink, giving its potential range a powerful boost.

Once more trying and failing to receive a signal in return, he started the long ascent up the slope. The Force was churning with the aftermath of the venomite invasion. Danger still hung in the air, a counterpoint to the eerie quiet. Every living thing in the area had disappeared – or been eaten. The forest had been gutted. A steadily growing conviction that he should hurry, that there was as yet undisclosed danger lurking nearby, gnawed at the back of his mind. He lengthened his stride and continued up the hill, accompanied only by the mounds of dead venomites and the oppressive silence.

* * *

><p>Gi Rass led them into a high room flanked by tall columns and lit by small arched slats in the upper reaches of the walls. The floor was of hardened clay, scuffed and worn by long centuries of use. There were numeous criss-crossing scratch marks upon the surface – traces of the "enlightened" monks' presence, Obi Wan guessed.<p>

In an alcove at one end sat three emaciated figures in tattered garments. They rested cross-legged upon low mats, and as the visitors drew near, Gi Rass knelt down before them, briefly touching his forehead to the floor. "Illumined Ones," he announced, "Here is the Jedi visitor. He comes seeking your wisdom."

The central figure – a very ancient humanoid with sunken cheeks and jutting bones – turned lackluster, dark eyes upon the newcomers. "Sit," he commanded Obi Wan, purposefully ignoring Satine. She sat beside the Jedi anyway, as dignified as ever.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Obi Wan began, but the B'Omarr monk cut him off with a raised hand.

"Giving and receiving are illusions," he croaked out in a voice like dry leaves rasping against tree bark. "To shelter or to feed is only to perpetuate the cycle of illusions we call the body. Do not thank me for maintaining your chains to physical existence."

Obi Wan glanced at Satine to see whether she found this as oddly amusing as he did, but she had the perfectly still face of a trained diplomat, and he had never yet quite mastered the art of reading her in the Force. "I have never before met one of your Order," he began again, opting to change tactics.

"Nor have we parleyed with a Jedi in many long years," the monk on the elder's right spoke. The voice was higher, softer. Perhaps it was a female – but all three were so shriveled and ravaged by starvation that it was difficult to tell. There was something faintly maternal in this person's demeanor, however, so he mentally dubbed her _grandmother._ "Tell us, youngling, what brings you here? Do you seek wisdom?"

"I seek knowledge of your ways," he replied carefully. "We value knowledge and understanding." It was true. Now that he had the opportunity, he was eager to hear first hand what they believed. Perhaps he could add to the account in the Temple archives – if ever this mission came to an end. "You are called the Illumined Ones. What does this mean?"

The last monk leaned forward. His face was lnog and solemn, but his body was much smaller than the others. "It means that we see the light of Truth, although we have not yet attained it. When we pass beyond the last illusion, then we shall be Enlightened, like so many of our brethren."

"And the last illusion…?"

The diminutive monk spoke again. "Desire. For anything at all. Sleep. Food. Pleasant sights. When desire is conquered, the body is no longer necessary. We are not, you know, truly creatures of the body."

Obi Wan nodded. "The Jedi also have a saying: _We are not this gross matter. Rather are we luminous beings."_

"Good!" the monk he had nicknamed _grandmother_ crowed. "Then you also seek to throw off this burden of flesh. You Jedi must also seek to escape desire?"

He could feel Satine watching him intently. Did Jedi teachings matter so much to her? He sought the best words to explain to the B'Omarri what he had been taught since infancy, and come to accept and understand through experience. "Yes…" he answered cautiously. "Desire that feeds the false self. But food and sleep – such things are natural to living beings. It is part of life to need these things. And all life flows from the Force and returns to it. We do not hold that such things are desire in the same way as ambition, or greed, or misplaced affection." His gaze flicked over to Satine, against his will, and returned to the emaciated monks.

The eldest of these considered him sagely. "Hm," he grunted. "Let me ask you this, Jedi. Are you afraid of death?"

"No."

They turned their sunken, blue-shadowed eyes to one another then, as though dubious. "So you would like to die, as soon as possible?"

Obi Wan frowned. What kind of fallacious game was this? "No," he replied. "But there is a difference-"

"No!" the old monk snorted, sounding for a moment as imperious and impatient as Master Yoda in a foul mood. "No difference at all. Each of us lives in the body because we desire life. You included. And to desire something is to fear its negation. Therefore, we all live in fear of death, who desire life in the body. This is the last chain, one that binds us and keeps us back from the perfect existence of the Enlightened Ones."

"I see," Obi Wan said after a moment. He saw, indeed – these people were one card short of a full sabaac deck. "Thank you for your wisdom." He inclined his head politely.

The eldest monk nodded slowly. "Use it well. Return to your Jedi and convince them of these truths, and you will have done well."


	15. Chapter 15

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 15**

Devrill Thwarp stood at the brink of the ravine separating forest from monastery. Below, a muddy river churned and thrashed its uneven way along a curving course at the stronghold's base, forming a natural moat. There had been but one bridge, and its ruins now lay tangled and wrecked at the bottom of the chasm. Cursing, and kicking a few dead venomite bodies over the edge of the cliff, Thwarp took a quick look-see walk around the rim. His brief excursion confirmed that the monastery stood on a jutting plateau of rock that had been carved into an island by the river. Perhaps centuries ago there had been an isthmus of land connecting it to the rest of the world – but now it endured a lofty isolation from everything but its own bizarre self.

Kind of like the monks themselves, Thwarp reflected. He fished his compact 'noculars out of their pouch and made a cursory scan of the land lying beyond. A dark trail of venomite bodies stretched all the way to the last gentle ridge. Beyond that, he knew, lay the ocean. Little chizzka were on the beach right now, having a great time. He'd never witnessed a venomite breeding frenzy, and decided that he'd really rather not ever see one. Besides, he hadn't found a single trace of the Jedi or the Mandalorian woman. If the bugs had got them, there ought to have been _some_ remains. No, they had made it to safety. It was a million to one they were holed up in that castle somewhere. Jedi might get on great with the weirdo B'Omarr monks, right? They were both archaic sects.

Thwarp wasn't one to surrender in the face of adversity. He spent the remainder of the morning climbing painstakingly down the cliff wall, and then forded the river by tossing across a line and pulling himself one difficult meter at a time across the roaring current. What he wouldn't give for a jetpack like some of those Mando types had…but then again, they were tricky – prone to explosions and real fuel guzzlers to boot. Sometimes sheer grit was the only reliable method. Once across the river, he spent some time drying himself in the sun and smoking six or seven bacci sticks in rapid succession. Then he choked down a bit of dried bantha jerky by way of lunch, had another bacci stick, and started the nasty climb up the opposite cliff face.

It was nightfall by the time he reached the monastery gates.

When the grizzled old gatekeeper finally responded to his insistent pounding, Thwarp pushed past him into the shadowy domed entrance hall. "Where are they?" he demanded.

"Location is an illusion of the sensory world," the monk told him, looking puzzled. "And you are trespassing on sacred ground."

"Yeah, sorry about that," the bounty hunter replied, tossing down his last bacci stick and grinding its smouldering butt on the hard floor with one boot heel. "I'm here on business. Looking for two human travellers – man and woman. Both in their twenties. Speak Basic – upper caste accents. Seen 'em?"

The old monk shook his head stubbornly. "You are not welcome here unless you are seeking wisdom," he said again.

Thwarp sighed and pulled out a blaster. "Look," he reasoned with the obstreperous gatekeeper. "You can help me or you can reach enlightenment real quick-like. What's it gonna be?"

But the grizzled old fellow didn't seem to get the hint. "Violence and the fear it inspires are illusions wrought by the body and its desires. We are free of such deception here, man of the false world without."

Thwarp pulled the trigger. He never had been much of a philosophy buff. "Thanks for the tip," he growled, and slipped up the nearest stairwell.

* * *

><p>Duchess Satine Kryze lay very still.<p>

Two of the fickle moons cast competing ghosts of shadow upon the hard floor, staining the dull slab of stone silver and ruddy orange. A star or two hung beside them, glinting cold in the purple sky. The air was cold, and without a cloak or blanket, the thin palette provided by their hosts seemed a dismal resting place. Her belly ached for food, and her newly healed body still ached with a hundred small complaints, with a persistent weariness. The monks had granted them the barest shelter, nothing more: no food, no warmth, no medicine or other bodily comforts.

And yet….curled on her side, she did not move. Against her hair, tickling the back of her neck, she could feel the warm, soft rhythm of exhaled breaths. Against her back, pressed close for warmth, the gentle tidal pulse of those same breaths as they swelled in and out. Under her hand, the subtle stirring of blood in veins, a muted beat against her fingertips. The weight of an arm draped across her. The brush of cloth against tendon and muscle. Was the gesture protective? Or possessive? Or was it nothing, a mere animal need for comfort?

She lay very still, unwilling to disturb her sleeping companion. But her mind raced. It had been a strange day. After the encounter with the B'Omarri Illumined Ones, the monks had paid them no further attention. Left to their own devices, they had searched the entire stronghold for communications equipment. The quest had ended in failure and frustration.

_"How can that be possible? To live without any means of connection to the outside world?" she had wondered aloud._

"_Perhaps communication is a deception practiced upon the soul," had been Obi Wan's wry answer._

The arm around her waist tightened and a long exhalation altered the steady rhythm of the Jedi's breath. She lay still. Yes, in this moment she could easily believe that communication was a web of illusions. Speech had proved itself a weaver of shadows and lies. How many words had they exchanged in the last days, the last weeks, the last months – how many, and yet how little had been said? Truth seemed to favor silence, such as this.

This was the _unsaid,_ which spoke the truth. Between them, it must remain _unsaid._

And so, in words, they wrought elaborate chasms and gulfs, carved out fiery shades of disharmony. The _said _must guard and sequester the unsaid, obscure and veil it, bury and obliterate it from mind and heart, lest it escape. Lest it be uttered, and bring down ruin in its wake. Illusion was their ally and their shield, and therefore also words, which so deftly spun that web of illusion. Without words to say, they would be left here, alone, in the silence of the unsaid. And they would be lost.

They had been lost earlier that day, too. The fruitless search had taken them all the way to the abandoned attics of the monastery – to a place underneath one of the domed roofs, where the ceiling had rotted away to leave nothing but the support beams. There, clinging to the rafters like a brood of frillabats, were dozens upon dozens of the ancient brain-jar monks. They appeared to be sleeping – Obi Wan had proposed that they were hibernating. Or perhaps locked in some kind of bodiless trance, as dis-illusioned as could possibly be imagined. Satine had hated the place, and even the Jedi had admitted that it verged on frightening.

Except Jedi were afraid of _nothing._

She lay still a while longer... and eventually she slept, her breaths rising and falling in synchrony with his.

* * *

><p>Qui Gon looked down at the foaming river, the wrecked bridge gleaming dull silver and orange in the moons' glow.<p>

Across the chasm, a B'Omarri monastery loomed, its tiered domes squatting smugly against the darkened sky. The Force abhorred the place, leaving it in grey twilight, a hollowness thrust into the world's light, a place for cobwebs and shadows of the Dark to gather and rot. Inside were madness, and stale memory. And his apprentice. He could sense Obi Wan clearly, a flare set amid the mire.

He tried the comlink again.

"Master!" Obi Wan's voice answered after several pings. "What took you so long?"

"I'm not the one who left the rendezvous position," Qui Gon smiled. "Is Duchess Kryze safe?"

"For now…" The Padawan's voice was tight. "There was a bounty hunter, down by the pod. I don't know where he is now. But I can feel him still. We're not out of this yet."

The Jedi master nodded gravely. "Be cautious," he advised, needlessly. "Stay where you are and protect the Duchess. I'll be there shortly."

* * *

><p>Inside the monastery, Devrill Thwarp wandered from hall to hall, empty corridor to hollow, empty corridor. In the silence of night, he could almost believe that this was an abode of ghosts, of monks who had truly left the body behind and now haunted the dusty passages as mere wraiths. If they were ghosts, however, they had a pretty posh lair. The place was huge.<p>

He stopped in a moonlit alcove to check his supplies. Along with his usual gear, he had a few useful items filched from the dead Phindian. Shock wire, selpium grenade – would that _work_ on a Jedi, he wondered? – and some extra cartridges for the girls, as he fondly named his blaster pistols. The plan was simple. Locate targets. Lure Jedi into fight, take him out first Take out Duchess. Go back to Jedi and finish up.

He was just repacking his kit when a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision had him wheeling round, both weapons drawn.

There was no need. It wasn't the Jedi. It was just about the weirdest thing he'd ever seen, though, including that Hutt mummy on Phanos 3. A spindly legged droid, sort of like a Neimoidian tea table design, scuttled across a silvery patch of light, passing from shadow to shadow. As it hurried across, he clearly saw the dark silhouette of a dismembered brain and spinal cord sloshing around in an orb of reddish liquid. No sooner had his astonished senses comprehended the form of this apparition, than it was gone, leaving him to gape at the space where it had been.

Slack jawed amazement gradually gave way to reflection, and reflection to scheming, and scheming to dark fantasy. Chuckling, he crept onward.


	16. Chapter 16

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 16**

Obi Wan paced the small room restlessly. "He's here already."

Satine remained seated upon the low palette, arms wrapped around her body for warmth. "Master Jinn?" she asked, confused. The two Jedi had spoken only ten minutes ago. The comlink's insistent pinging had roused both of them from blissful sleep, shattering the still moment into a fine, ephemeral dust like that which coated the floor. Danger and urgency rushed in to fill the void left behind, the relentless furies on their heels.

The young Jedi halted. "No. The bounty hunter. He's here. He's looking for us."

She studied him as he glared out the window, his expression suggesting that he wished the silent moons to speak, to spout forth wisdom. "But Master Jinn will be here soon," she reasoned. "Surely the two of you together-"

He snapped round, the long thin braid swinging over one shoulder. "We don't have time to wait for Qui Gon," he said, sharply. "And there's nowhere left to run. We're cornered."

She shrank back from his penetrating blue gaze. It was hot, hot like the saber blade which lay waiting, shrouded in deadly potential , within its gleaming hilt. Her reaction startled him, for his face softened and he dropped to one knee before her, now pleading.

"I'm going to have to fight him."

She fought to control her flash of indignation. "We could escape," she insisted. "Hide. Use trickery. You've done all these things before."

He shook his head. "That will only delay this, Satine. He wants you dead. He wants me dead. This is what he does for a _living._ He won't accept a peaceful solution. There is only one way to end this."

She turned her face away. How _dare_ he ask her to condone bloodshed? Did he wish her to give assent, to sign the bounty hunter's death warrant, as her enemies had signed hers? Did he care so little for her inner truth? A strong hand grasped at hers, holding it gently between calloused fingers.

"Satine."

"You will do what you will," she said, not looking at him. "Why do you crave my approval?"

"I want you to hide," he replied, unexpectedly. "Do you remember that attic we discovered? The one under the roof, where the old monks were hibermating?"

She whipped her head back around, feeling color drain from her face. He was pale, also. Strained. Yes, she remembered that awful pace. "You are not suggesting that I –"

"I am. Go. Stay there until Qui Gon or I come for you. One of us will come. Don't move from that spot – _no matter what._ Promise me."

She tossed her head, mutinously. Words stuck in her throat.

"Satine, please." He leaned forward, almost begging, no more Jedi hauteur, no more cold aloofness. The glimpse of raw, unprotected humanity she saw there stopped her breath. And destroyed her resistance.

"Oh! Very well," she growled. "This had better not take long."

"It won't," he assured her, rising to his feet again. "Take my comlink. Qui Gon can use it locate you. Remember – _stay there._" And he dashed out the door, making sure that she slipped up the nearby stairwell, on her way to the hidden roost of shadows.

When her footsteps had faded into silence above, he ran for the mid level meeting chamber, where he knew he would find trouble.

* * *

><p>Satine reached the door to the attic, coughing in the dust and cobwebs which flocked every surface. To be more accurate, the "door" was little more than a crack in the ceiling, a place where the plaster had fallen away to leave a gaping space. She grabbed its edges and pulled, struggling to haul her weight upward through the opening. More of the plaster crumbled beneath her fingers, and she almost slipped. Grunting and cursing in an unladylike fashion, she managed at last to wriggle through the hole and onto a broad support beam. There she crouched, waiting for her vision to adjust to the dim light filtered through the gap between the domed roof's inverted bowl and the decaying walls.<p>

The attic was a network of crossing trestles, a support for the dome. Dust lay thick on the beams, and an awful stench was in the air – a smell like some nightmarish chemistry lab. She could make out the hunched figures in the gloom: the monks, sitting here and there, alone or in twos or threes, perfectly still among the shadows and the cobwebs.

With a shudder, she moved cautiously forward along the beam, crawling on hands and knees for balance. She bumped against something hard and smooth, and cried out. It was one of the B'Omarri. Something dark floated in the red liquid of its jar….she had to breathe deeply for a long moment to avoid being sick. Standing up and bracing herself against the nearest cross beam, she painstakingly made her way round the horrific thing and crouched on its opposite side.

Here she could not be seen, or heard. She settled in, among the undead B'Omarri, and clutched her knees to her chest. _Stay there until Qui Gon or I come for you, _Obi Wan had said._ No matter what._ She closed her eyes and prayed that she would have the strength to endure.

* * *

><p>When he reached the high-roofed meeting chamber, nobody was there. And yet the Force shook violently with warning: danger, creeping near.<p>

Obi Wan gripped the hilt of his saber and drew in several deep, calming breaths. How was it that a single bounty hunter had his nerves so on edge? Whence the unfamiliar sensation of vulnerability? He knew well how to defend himself, knew well the dangers of fear and hesitation. Why should this encounter be any different? It was as though a part of his very self were broken free, roaming of its own accord apart from his body, a fragment which by its unfettered, independent nature laid him open to attack and injury. This treacherous piece of his spirit he could not calm – it seemed oblivious to two decades of Jedi training. And this piece he dared not call by its name. He dared only call it attachment. Attachment which was weakness, distraction, and ultimately, death.

A millisecond later, another thought added to that last, and he would have been too late to block the blaster shot aimed at his head. Swinging his saber up on blind, Force-enhanced instinct, he blocked the energy bolt and then swung into motion to deflect two more. The bounty hunter, come to kill Satine.

He flourished the saber angrily, its blue flame echoing his ire, humming in tune with his blood.

"I've seen you in action with that thing before, you murderous little barve," the yellow toothed human grinned, emerging from cover behind a pillar. He lingered just inside an adjacent doorway, not yet over the threshold of the room. "Listen, youngster: where's that pretty little Duchess, eh? Thought you were her bodyguard."

"She's not here," Obi Wan growled, taking three paces forward. A Jedi does not act in aggression. He fights only in defense. He forced himself not to take the fourth step.

The bounty hunter backed up a scant pace, further into the passage behind, two blasters resting loosely in his hands, slung low at his sides. "Okay, okay," the man smiled back, eyes empty of humor. "Don't worry. I'll find her. But you and I got business to settle. That was my good mate you chopped up on board that passenger ship. Rhin's his name. Remember him? I got a message for you from Rhin."

And with that, he opened fire again, aiming shots in a dazzling scatter of red light. Obi Wan danced away, deflecting the nearest hits back at the bounty hinter, who was forced to dodge his own returned fire. One grazed his sleeve.

"You slagging little son of a Hutt!" the furious mercenary cried in pain, clutching at the hurt arm. His face twisted, and he ran, ducking back into the hallway and pounding away down its length into shadow. Caught in the furious whirlwind of his desire, swept up in the battle and the need to cut down the enemy before he found Satine, Obi Wan leapt after him, clearing the threshold with a single snarling leap – straight into the tangle of gossamer-fine shockwire stretched across the shadowed doorway.

Lightning blasted through every fiber of his body- and then blackness.

A few seconds later, Devrill Thwarp reappeared and tugged loose the deactivated wire. Such an easy trick, really. He kicked the spent strands aside, and pressed the barrel of his blaster against the unconscious Jedi's head. But then he had a another thought. He still needed to find the Duchess – after all, that was the whole point of all this trouble. That's where the money was. He turned his captive over with one booted foot.

"I got exciting news for you," he grinned, sadistically.


	17. Chapter 17

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 17**

From the B'Omarri Sutra of Final Enlightenment_, _standard Pelusian translation:

_He who knows these things is free of them forever:_

_That the body is a chain binding the soul_

_That the senses are the links of this chain_

_That the lies told by the senses are poison to weaken our souls._

_That the desire for these falsehoods is a fever in the soul_

_That pain and pleasure are the prison in which this chain is set._

_Fear, its towers. Joy, its deepest vault._

_That hunger and thirst are tormentors come to break the soul_

_That weariness and sickness are temptations set before the soul_

_That growth and strength are the weakness of the soul_

_That desire for life is the final bond, more wicked, more cunning, more subtle than all others.._

_He who knows these things is free and shall never be prisoner again._

_To be free, he who knows these things relinquishes them accordingly:_

_He who does not desire life gives up the body willingly._

_He is then beyond illness and sleep._

_He is beyond hunger and thirst._

_He is beyond fear and joy, beyond pleasure and pain._

_He is beyond the desire for things, for he is beyond sensing them._

_Beyond the senses, beyond the body._

_He is free- alone with what is, enlightened and perfect._

_There is no better state than this._

_This is what we aspire to become._

* * *

><p>Obi Wan opened his eyes, slitting them against the bright, painful light that shone full in his face. He turned his head a little, to escape the piercing brightness, aware at first only of blurred shapes and colors - and a splitting headache. A trickle of urgency worried at the back of his mind. He was doing something. Something important…<p>

The bounty hunter! Satine! A rush of adrenaline flooded through him, and he sprang up with a mighty effort. Except he could not spring up. He was fixed in place. Blinking now to clear his vision, he struggled a little – but his limbs were heavy, flaccid and unresponsive. His greatest effort produced only a feeble pressure on wrists and ankles, which were held fast in cold, unyielding clamps. His memory shifted and arranged itself into new patterns, piecing together lost time. Where was he? What had he been doing? There had been a terrible shock – some kind of trap. The bounty hunter must have set it. And he had been enough of a fool to rush headlong after the assassin, like a green Padawan on his first mission. He must now be a captive. That was familiar enough. But then…why was he flat on his back?

A medical droid's faceplate swam into view above him. It was an old model, with a muzzle shaped grating over its vocoder and two wide unblinking eyes set in front of the head. Its delicate, super-precise arms and digits gently prodded at him, and it passed a biomonitor over his scalp in a long sweep.

"There is no major neurological damage," it informed him in its bland, soothing voice.

"I'm so glad, " he replied. "You can release the restraints now."

The droid straightened, as though unsure what to do. Obi Wan frowned. Med droids' fundamental programming did not allow them to override their patients' expressly formulated wishes. Was something wrong with this model?

"Don't listen to him," another, deeper human voice growled. The speaker was standing out of his limited line of vision, but Obi Wan recognized the bounty hunter's rasping bacci smoker's rattle. "He's just got a case of nerves. Wee bit scared, you know."

"Ah," the droid intoned. "Fear is one of the illusions perpetuated by the body. Do not pay it any heed. We will proceed in a few minutes, once the muscle relaxant has taken full effect." It did not release the binding cuffs as requested, Instead it shuffled over to a countertop where instruments and equipment were arranged in a tidy row.

The bounty hunter ambled around to where the droid had been and leaned in close, leering. The scent of cheap bacci was overpowering. "I'm so glad you reached enlightenment in the process of our little confrontation," he sneered.

"Yes," the droid chirped happily. "It has been at least a decade since anyone in the monastery has attained the ultimate state."

Obi Wan did not like the sound of this at all. "I assure you, I haven't," he insisted, looking around the stone walls of this place to find something heavy that was not bolted to the floor or the gleaming countertops. Everything significant seemed to be immobile, except the solid arm of the light fixture. He seized it with the Force, and swung it heavily around, at the bounty hunter's head.

"Chizzsk!" the man grunted as he was nearly slammed to the floor. "You piece of Jedi filth…" He wiped blood from his nose with the back of one hand. "Droid! Aren't you ready yet?"

"The procedure is delicate," the med unit answered primly. "An art form. We will proceed in a few moments, after I finish calibrating the transfer equipment."

"You do know why you're here, don't you?" the bounty hunter growled, leaning in close again.

"You can't intimidate me," Obi Wan told him, contemptuously.

"Oh, I know you Jedi ain't afraid of pain or death, my boy. I know that. But I got something worse than death here. You ever see an enlightened B'Omarr monk? Yeah? Well, what if I told you you're about to join their ranks? Our friend here," – he jerked a thumb at the busily puttering droid- "is a _specialist._ That's all he's programmed to do. And let me tell you, he's pretty excited to get down to business."

"How charming," the Jedi replied, dryly.

The bounty hunter chuckled. "Of course, like you said, you're not really so enlightened now, are you? Well, if that's the case, and you want to disappoint the poor droid over there, I could probably talk him out of it. Or shut him down. Or release you. All you gotta do is tell me where that pretty little Duchess of yours is hiding."

Obi Wan's heart skipped a beat. So that was the purpose of all this? "I will not cooperate with you," he said, flatly.

"That's too bad," the mercenary muttered, rolling a bacci stick for himself. "Mind if I stick around to watch? Just tell me if you change your mind, now." He lit the rolled bacci and took a long satisfied drag on it, releasing a cloud of yellowish smoke. "Just let me know when you're ready to talk."


	18. Chapter 18

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 18**

Qui Gon hauled himself over the edge of the second cliff-face in one smooth motion, and released the liquid cable's grappling end from the cleft where it had lodged. Here, in the shadow of the monastery, he felt the disturbance in the Force yet more clearly. The citadel was under siege…darkness seeped from beneath its gates, rose invisibly off its domes like steam off a witch's cauldron. Most alarming of all, he could no longer sense Obi Wan's presence clearly – it was as though a candle had been snuffed, leaving only a trailing shadow of fragrant smoke.

He pounded on the massive doors three times, and then gave up. His instincts were roused to vibrant alarm, resonating to the echoing shudder of death behind these portals. He summoned the Force and lifted the interior locking bar out of its socket. Then he put a broad shoulder to the doors and pushed. The gates swung open a meter or so, revealing a dark interior.

Saber blade humming, he slipped into the entry hall. In the weapon's pale green glow, he could make out the crumpled form of an old B'Omarr monk – a humanoid, his face distorted by an awful blaster wound. A murder, in cold blood. The bounty hunter was here, inside this realm of delusion.

He ran up the nearest stairwell.

* * *

><p>"We are ready to begin the procedure," the med droid announced, rubbing its hands together enthusiastically. "The apparatus is prepared. I have calibrated the brain support system for human anatomy."<p>

"Great," Thwarp answered. "Isn't that just vaping fantastic, Jedi?"

"I'm overjoyed," Obi Wan snapped. "Enough of this. Release me now and you might get out of this alive."

But the mercenary only laughed aloud. "You're a cocky one….what's your name, anyhow? Mine's Thwarp. It's such a privilege to meet a real, true Enlightened One. Been a pleasure, believe me."

Obi Wan strained against the magneto binders, but his treasonous limbs obeyed only sluggishly. The droid was leaning over him now, holding a tangle of tubes and wires. He shuddered involuntarily, and snatched the pile out of its grasp, Force-throwing the equipment against the opposite wall.

"Hey now!" Thwarp objected. "Look here." He bent down, adjusting some control beneath the counter's edge. A jolt of energy arced through the binders, and Obi Wan cried out despite himself. "I wouldn't get too feisty if I were you."

The droid slapped Thwarp's hand away and readjusted the control. "Desist!" it commanded. "Neurological damage can endanger the success of the procedure. This is a fine art form. I cannot admit any interference from amateurs."

"Sorry," Thwarp smirked unrepentantly.

"It is customary to administer a sedative at this stage," the droid continued. "I have the proper solution prepared."

Obi Wan sucked in a halting breath, still recovering from the painful shock. "No," he gasped.

The bounty hunter grinned, malice rolling off him in waves. "Aw…did you hear that? The subject wants to be conscious for his enlightenment experience. He wants to feel every moment of it."

"That is highly irregular," the droid sniffed. "But it not in violation of procedural guidelines. I suppose it could be permitted."

"So what's next?" the bounty hunter inquired, full of morbid curiosity. The droid was busy fixing a complex electromonitor in place.

"Now we begin to shut down the animal nervous system. I will employ nerve probes to form an isolation barrier around the spinal cord. Once in place and activated, we can begin to transfer brain function to the artificial system. Once that is complete, a simple extraction is necessary to relocate the brain and cord to the walking apparatus."

Thwarp leaned over his captive again. "Sound like fun to you, Jedi? Listen – you can still back out of the deal. Just tell me where your Mandalorian vixen is stowed. One word and I can spare you."

"_Never._"

"That's not the word I was looking for, kid. But let's see how you feel once we get started. No girl is worth _that," _he added, pointing to the empty brain jar waiting near at hand. "Not in my experience, anyway." He chortled softly, cruelly. "Wish Rhin were here to see this. He'd appreciate the cosmic justice."

Obi Wan ignored the bounty hunter's taunts. A cold, eviscerating fear was assaulting his self-control. Pain and death he was prepared for – or so he thought – but this was something else besides, something that in all his short but full life he had never imagined. He would much rather die than suffer the hideous fate which his enemy proposed. The B'Omarri idea of enlightenment he saw as nothing short of the most awful of hells. The very idea of it was an affront to the Force, to life itself. Again and again he fought down the terrible numbing fear which threatened to consume him. A Jedi did not feel fear, even in the face of such horrors. And he would certainly never betray Satine to save himself – even if he believed the lying villain's words. He called on the Force and on all the strength his training has given him to remain impassive, collected. He could feel his heart throbbing against his ribs, feel the perspiration slicking his bare back. There is no emotion. There is serenity. Part of him, a buried childhood part, wanted to scream out, _Master! Qui Gon! Help me! _He wrestled the impulse down. If he felt fear, the wretched being before him would at least never have the satisfaction of knowing it.

"Hurry up," Thwarp urged the droid. "Our friend here is impatient to get started."

"Yes, yes," the droid responded. "We are ready." It picked up a delicate nerve probe in one of its hyper-articulated hands. "There may be some discomfort."


	19. Chapter 19

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 19**

Qui Gon passed through corridor after corridor, hall after spacious hall. No sign of his apprentice or Satine. Along one corridor he caught a glimpse of three spider-like B'Omarr monks scuttling down a side passage. For some reason, the vision inspired him with unreasonable dread – a thin knife of panic. He squashed it and moved on, once more trying the comlink. By now they should be in short-burst range.

On the fifth attempt, the Duchess' voice came over the link, sounding hollow and strained. "Master Jinn. Is that you?"

Qui Gon frowned. "Yes. Where is Obi Wan?"

There was a pregnant pause. "He went looking for the bounty hunter. He said there was no time, that we were cornered. He told me to stay hidden until you contacted me. I don't know where he is," she added, her even tone cracking slightly.

Qui Gon's mind raced. "Stay where you are," he instructed her. "Do you understand? Do not under any circumstances leave your location until I give you the all clear. I'll find both of them and return for you."

"I understand," the young woman replied. She did not sound well. The Jedi master could sense an aching worry behind her voice. Was she so concerned about his Padawan? Her anxiety was out of proportion , he judged….another worrisome fact. But this was not the time to deal with that unfortunate development.

He ascended another stairwell, and another, exhausting the entire west wing of the huge complex. No – he was not on the right trail. Which way? Stopping in his tracks, he knelt down on the hard floor of the passage and closed his eyes. He would never get anywhere running around like an ant in its hill. He needed the Force to guide him. Releasing all emotion and thought, he let himself drift in its currents. He sought for Obi Wan's presence…

Across his mind a sudden, intense message flashed like lightning in a stormy sky. _Master! Qui Gon! Help me!_ He had only felt that call a handful of times, and it had always been an occasion of the most desperate crisis. Qui Gon sprang to his feet. Like a beacon, the call had come from below. Of course! There were sublevels to this fortress. Why hadn't he thought of it? The monks had built deep into the stony promontory, beneath ground level. He had only to find the entrance.

He pelted down the stairs again, taking the nearest flight in one bound. Terrible certainty that he was almost too late drove him to even greater speed. _Hold on, Obi Wan,_ he urged his Padawan. _Hold on._

* * *

><p>Satine thought she might scream. Surrounded by dust and shadows and the monks with their bulbous jars full of dark, frothy liquid, she felt that she might not last another second without giving way to hysteria. Yet Obi Wan had said <em>stay there, no matter what.<em> And Qui Gon Jinn had repeated the order. She must stay put. The bounty hunter's location was unknown. Her best hope of survival was to stay here….safe.

She tore her thoughts away from her gruesome surroundings and tried to focus on other things – but an inexplicable panic filled her mind again and again. Obi Wan had gone to find the bounty hunter. How long ago? Hours? Days? There was no time here, only death and dust. Qui Gon did not know where his apprentice was. Something must be wrong. Jedi did not simply disappear. A hundred awful scenarios flashed through her imagination, each more dreadful than the last. But no, impossible. _He's nearly invincible,_ she reminded herself. _He's cunning, brave. Resourceful, cautious, experienced. He can handle himself. _But somehow the reassurances sounded hollow in her own ears. She laid her head against her knees and bit her lip. When would the waiting end? How she longed to hear some word….anything at all…

The comlink pinged. Hastily snatching it up again, she answered in a breathless gasp. "Yes?"

But it was not Qui Gon Jinn's voice on the other end. It was a rasping humanoid voice, one that grated in the lower octaves like an bacci addict's. "Duchess Satine Kryze, I presume?" the vile bounty hunter enquired with mock politeness.

"What do you want?" she demanded, heart pounding erratically. "Where did you get this link code?"

"I have my ways," he purred. "And a few handy little gadgets. Listen, my beauty. I have to tell you that you are a fortunate woman."

"Whatever do you mean, you vile piece of filth?" she snarled, her temper matching her fear, pace for frantic pace.

"Your Jedi protector is a stubborn fellow. He won't tell me where you're hiding, even to save himself. Most people would have been screaming for mercy long before now." He chuckled quietly.

"Monster!" the Duchess choked out. "What have you done?"

There was a short silence. "Oh, I didn't know you cared," the mercenary sneered. "Well, in that case, you might want to listen closely." There was a pause…and then she heard it. A long, expressive groan of pain – a cry cut off in the middle as though someone had bitten it back…

"Obi," she whimpered, heart sinking into black despair. "Stop!" she shouted into the link. "Stop whatever you are doing! It won't do any good, can't you see that?"

"Don't fret," the sardonic bounty hunter reassured her. "I'm not going to kill your Jedi. Not at all. I'm giving him everlasting life, I reckon. He's going to permanently join the B'Omarri Order. Lucky gundark."

"What?" Satine cried out. "No!" She felt sick, and had to grasp at the support beam to prevent herself falling onto the lath and plaster below. Her breaths came shallow and fast.

"I can see you don't like the idea," the evil man continued. "Listen. I can't stand seeing a damsel in distress. You want to spare him any further suffering? Just come out of hiding. I'm on the third sublevel beneath the main tower. You come and see me like a good girl, and we can finish this business off. What do you say?"

She could not speak.

Obi Wan broke into the conversation. "Satine, _no!"_ he shouted, his voice cracking with pain. "_No!_ Stay where you are! Do _not_ come here!"

The bounty hunter laughed. "So noble," he remarked acidly. "I can see the appeal. Your choice. You know where to find us." The link cut out.

Furious, fingers shaking, she cued the device to Qui Gon Jinn's frequency, but the comlink refused to work. The bounty hunter had remotely jammed it, somehow.

Satine sobbed and sobbed, anger, defiance and despair welling up in one overwhelming moment. She made her decision. She could never sit by and passively wait while Obi Wan….She couldn't even finish the thought. She would rather die herself than be party to such an atrocity.

Abandoning her perch, she slipped back through the hole in the plaster and made a beeline for the third sublevel.


	20. Chapter 20

**Beyond the Last Illusion**

**Chapter 20**

Devrill Thwarp was enjoying himself immensely. Seldom did he have a chance to finish a job with so much personal flair. Usually it was in and out, get the job done and collect the pay, no frills. This was something else again. It felt good. It felt _real._ Lijke he was making a difference, not just making a living.

The young Jedi was in a world of hurt. Those nerve probes must be nasty business. Tiny clawed things attached to a microfilament, they were working their way up his vertebrae, one on either side, wrapping the thin neuro-compatible thread around the spinal cord as they went. It was all part of the procedure, the droid had informed him. Extracting somebody's brain from his body was a delicate operation. Everything had to be just right. Thwarp watched the Jedi arch and twist and grit his teeth and try not to groan. He was soaked in sweat. He _had_ to be afraid, even if he didn't show it. Thwarp just had a gut feeling about that. Nobody – Jedi or not – would want to end up like those kriffing brain jar monks. Well, nobody except the crazy B'Omarri themselves.

And then he idly wondered how many of_ them_ really, really wanted it, either. Did they get to this stage in their journey of enlightenment and regret the decision, he wondered? Now there was an intriguing thought. But he would never know the answer for sure.

His philosophical reverie was interrupted by an agonized cry from the doorway.

"Well, what do we have here?" He made the Duchess a mocking courtly bow, and seized her by one arm, twisting cruelly. She gasped, and her eyes travelled to the suffering Jedi.

"Stop!" she cried out, desperate. "Stop! I'm here, I surrender, you unspeakable _demon_! Let him go!"

Thwarp unholstered his blaster and set it against her delicately curved temple. She closed her eyes.

But no. that was too easy. There wasn't any _style_ in that. It would ruin the moment. "Now wait a minute," he said, shoving her forward. "I'm so glad you joined us. I think you might want to watch a little bit." She cried out again as he pushed her sharply in the back, toward the droid's operating table.

"This next part is most interesting," the droid warbled in an academic tone. "Once the probes have completed their progress at the top of the spinal column, I can gradually shut down all major neurological functions that support animal life. The electro-pulsors will keep the relevant brain functions suppressed, so as not to induce shock. Then I will induce a temporary coma in order to effect the extraction. Just another ninety seconds, I estimate."

The Duchess tried to escape his grip, but Thwarp kept a tight hold on her, savouring every delectable second.

"Obi Wan!" she sobbed.

Dazed, half-broken, he managed to turn his face toward the sound. Absolute horror flitted over his features. "Satine!" he gasped. "What are you…! I said – I said –" But the rest of it was cut off by a long writhing cry of agony. His eyes rolled back and every muscle went rigid.

Devrill laghed and laughed, as the Duchess screamed and sobbed. This was delicious! And then he spun round in alarm. His joy was cut short by an unexpected and very unwelcome sound: a snapping hiss followed by a low thrumming tone. The tall Jedi stood in the doorway, his grey eyes flashing dangerously. His green blade hummed ferociously in the small space.

Thwarp let go his prisoner and turned the blaster on the newcomer instead, emptying six or seven full power shots into the Jedi at point blank range. The green blade swept and spun; the deadly bolts blasted into the ceiling, the floor, the countertop, the light fixture, and the brain jar waiting for its new occupant. Red liquid spattered everywhere, slicking the floor and staining clothing crimson. Thwarp skidded and slipped over the floor, backing away from the advancing Jedi. He wasn't going to go without a fight. He turned the blaster's point on the Duchess instead, crouching at the far end of the room, her clothing splattered in scarlet droplets, her resplendent hair coming loose from its knot.

He sighted down the barrel –

-and the last thing he saw was a flash of brilliant green light across his eyes.

* * *

><p>"You," QUi Gon barked at the droid. "Stop this procedure at once."<p>

"There is no need," the emotionless robotic medic droned. "It is progressing without complications."

Qui Gon felt his temper snap. He held his pulsing saber to the thing's neck joint. "Halt it or I will scrap you," he threatened.

The words had no effect. "Destruction is one of the illusions practiced by the realm of sensory data," the droid intoned, its optical sensors gleaming with what could only be termed fanatical light. "That statement does not compute."

Satine was frantically pushing controls, looking for the binders' release trigger.

"If I destroy you," Qui Gon pointed out in his most diplomatic tones, "There will be nobody here with your skill. Never again will a monk of this community be able to attain full enlightenment."

This got the droid calculating. "That would constitute a lamentable cultural tragedy, " it duly concluded. "I must preserve the B'Omarr way of life and traditions."

"Then release my friend," the Jedi master commanded it. "Remove those nerve probes."

Satine found the release, and loosened the restraints, pulling them off with her own hands. Obi Wan did not stir.

"I am sorry," the medic intoned. "They are not designed to be removed. I can deactivate them, but they will have to remain in place."

"What?" Satine briefly turned terrified eyes upon Qui Gon, then returned her attention to his Padawan. She held his face between two trembling hands. He did not respond.

Qui Gon let out his breath slowly. He felt an overwhelming compulsion to Force-throw the wicked droid into the far wall – but such sentiments were fruitless and a path to the Dark Side. "Deactivate them, then, for stars' sake. Take off those electropulsors. Now."

The droid hastened to obey. Qui Gon chafed one of his apprentice's hands. The skin was ice cold. He touched his forehead – questing with the Force…trying to feel how deep the damage might be.

"Is he…? Will he…?" Satine whispered querulously.

The Jedi master scowled deeply. "We must find help. And fast," he said, brutally suppressing all emotion. There was nothing to be gained from worry or fear. "We need a Jedi healer. Let us go – without delay." He leaned down and lifted Obi Wan over his own shoulders, then carefully straightened. "There is no need to stay here."

As he strode out the door, he cast one last look at the red-spattered floor, where brain liquid seeped into the slain bounty hunter's rumpled clothing. The droid was left amid the wreckage, nervously wringing its hands.

As they hurried up the passage to the main level, several B'Omarr monks scattered out of their path, long spindly legs scratching against the cold tiles of the monastery floor as they disappeared back into the omnipresent shadows.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

Mantra from the Jedi Temple tradition (anonymous attribution):

_Rejoice in life while you have it, for it comes from the Force. Relinquish your life when your time comes, for it returns to the Force. Grieve not for those whose life ends, for they are one with the Force. Despair not for those who still live, for they too are filled with the Force._

Qui Gon Jinn repeated the age-old words in his mind, breathing in the truth of them, resting in their wisdom. He must act, with courage and not despair.

The Pelioni police had found them outside the monastery, having arrived to seek out their missing member. Informed that his murderer was inside the B'Omarr fortress, and already slain, the police had opted to declare the case closed. They had too many pressing concerns to deal with elsewhere. Large scale protests arranged by the Land Distribution Initiative were threatening the peace of the capital city.

They had grudgingly allowed him to borrow an older model security shuttle, persuaded by his Force-laden suggestion that they would be rewarded for their generosity, as they were helping a Jedi in need. Now he piloted the rickety old ship to the nearest source of assistance he knew: a long shot, but their only chance. Someone who might – just possibly – be convinced to help them. If that failed, then there was nothing more he could do. Time was running short, and he must still carry on the mission to protect the Duchess, alone if that was the will of the Force.

The very thought chilled his blood. He glanced over his shoulder, thorugh the cockpit frame into the stripped-down passenger hold normally reserved for transporting criminals. Satine sat in the corner of the dismal space, cradling Obi Wan's head in her lap.

The young Jedi was beyond exhaustion, and still in great pain. The Duchess, Qui Gon perceived – wishing that he had not – was weeping soft tears over him.

Qui Gon turned back to the viewport ahead. He pushed all alarm to the back of his mind, and checked the nav computer. Clenching his jaw in determination, he thrust them forward, past light speed into hyperspace and whatever destiny lay before them.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Gentle readers….do not weep soft tears over the young Jedi, nor curse the vile bounty hunter's name. Attachment and anger are, after all, two swift paths to the Dark Side. Instead, read this tale's immediate sequel, which is titled On Distant Shores, and will be posted serially beginning 11/13/11.


End file.
